Lotus
by elliott ashes
Summary: Rebecca/Valencia femmeslash. An alternate take on season three. After Rebecca's wedding doesn't go as planned, Valencia stays to comfort her. This story follows Rebecca's diagnosis and recovery process, as well as Valencia's interiority as she realizes relationships can be very different from what she had with Josh. Full summary inside. Thanks notbang for the lovely cover image!
1. feelings, talking thing

**Full summary:** Rebecca has always had trouble holding onto a sense of who she is. She mimics movie characters, tries on personalities like outfits, changes like the weather of a much less temperate zone than West Covina. And the hardest part is that these identities aren't as simple as lying — Rebecca commits to the role, shapes her life around it.

It's her pattern. Find what others want, and become that. Be loved at any cost.

She's been practicing for this all her life.

But when Josh Chan leaves her, Rebecca is forced to reevaluate her entire way of seeing relationships — and herself. And what about these feelings she's developing towards Valencia? As the two get to know each other on a deeper level, slowly their relationship takes shape in ways that are both more complex and more meaningful than Rebecca had ever thought possible. This isn't going to be simple. But that doesn't mean it won't be worth it.

**Notes: **Thank you to **notbang** on Tumblr for the beautiful cover art. I love it so much! The scene depicted takes place in chapter 3.

This fic will be either 8 or 9 chapters long, and I'll try to have it all up by the end of April. This fic is close to my heart, featuring information about BPD drawn from my own experiences. Any feedback is highly appreciated, and positive comments and constructive criticism are both great motivation to write and improve. Thanks for reading!

**x**

_'cause anyone who has ever sat in lotus for more than a few seconds_  
_knows it take a hell of a lot more muscle to stay than to go_

-andrea gibson

**x**

Rebecca Bunch sits crumpled on the manicured lawn, knees to her chest and face hidden in her folded arms. The afternoon wind whispers as it sways through the palm leaves and tall, decorative grass. Rebecca shakes with tears or breathing. Her wedding dress, grass-stained where it pools around her, gleams with painful brightness, stinging Valencia's eyes in the late afternoon sun. Sharp, rhinestone glitter draws her mind back to the flash of the waves, the jagged rocks Rebecca had stood over so shortly before, and Valencia's heart catches in her throat.

She knows she isn't good at this. This... feelings, talking thing. She's a problem solver, not a problem... talker. But Valencia's eyes grow blurry and her skin hums with anxiety, unable to fully let go of that fear that gripped her when she thought she might lose Rebecca. Maybe Valencia doesn't know what to say, but she also knows she won't forgive herself if she doesn't try to say something.

"You didn't do anything wrong, you know."

At first, Valencia isn't sure Rebecca has heard her. As she sits down beside the other woman, Rebecca doesn't look up, continues to vibrate with sobs into her knees. The too-quiet air prickles Valencia's skin; _breathe out stress,_ she tells herself. _Clear your energy channels._ But attempts to clear her mind are interrupted by the distant sounds of Rebecca's mom berating her ex-husband — _"She wanted you in her life and this is what you do, scheming shikker, why she even expected you to behave like a human being I have no idea—"_ Valencia tries without much success to tune it out, guilt tugging at her insides because she knows, another day, she might have been drawn to eavesdrop on the conflict. But now, knowing Rebecca like she's come to, seeing what her friend has been through, is going through... she can't find this entertaining. It breaks her heart.

_"If you're going to abandon someone at least have the consistency to LEAVE THEM ALONE!"_ Naomi screams. Valencia expects Rebecca to flinch at the sound; instead, she doesn't react at all. She seems used to it.

The more Valencia learns, the less "crazy" Rebecca's behaviour seems. Yes, she's intense, and her judgement isn't the best — okay, that's putting it mildly — but she is, in her own weird, confusing way, a good person. And she's hurting terribly.

Paula would know what to say, but she's taken on the unpleasant task of sending the guests home. Maybe Valencia could get her attention somehow, find some casual way to summon her over here — but before she can think of one, Rebecca finally speaks.

"He left me. On our wedding day." Rebecca's voice is muffled by her knees, and Valencia has to lean in to hear. "I just... I knew it was too good to be true. I _knew_ something would ruin it."

A pang of emotion Valencia can't identify moves through her — isn't she supposed to want this? Her rival in tears, now that neither of them can have Josh? But the twist in her stomach kills the possibility of any satisfactions, and it's more than just her meticulously-planned wedding being ruined by a guy who still wears board shorts. As she sits beside Rebecca, watching her shoulders shake, Valencia's chest aches as though she herself is the one struggling to breathe. What she wants, she realizes, isn't spite or revenge or a fabulous ceremony or grandiose one-up. All she wants is to take away some of the pain her friend is going through.

"The only 'something' that ruined your wedding is named Joshua Felix Chan," says Valencia, voice hardening. "And I would know. Like, he puts all these expectations on women to take care of him, to give his life some direction, and when things aren't perfect he jumps ship." Valencia slips off the headset she'd been wearing, sets it down on the nearby picnic table. Gentler, she says, "Believe me. You're in good company."

Rebecca raises her head, though she remains curled in a tight ball, clutching her legs like she's afraid she'll fly apart if she doesn't hold onto herself. In her reddened eyes, the irises shine jarringly blue, like they're piercing through Valencia. "Thanks," she says evenly. Then her voice splinters, "I can't believe I was such an idiot."

Behind her, the lowering sun crests into oranges and blues, outlining the trees and grass seeds in deep gold. The scenery would be calming in any other circumstances, but Valencia's heart, normally a steady 40 beats per minute, hammers against her chest.

"No," says Valencia. "Seriously, you're the smartest person I know. Josh is the idiot. He's a… big, stupid idiot-head." Despite herself, the corner of Valencia's mouth quirks upward with the slightest smile. "I learned that one from you, remember?"

Rebecca's mouth trembles, but she nods.

"Josh has no idea what he wants. And, whatever, that would be fine if he didn't try to use everyone around him to fix his directionlessness. But you deserve better than being used."

Hesitantly, she puts a hand on Rebecca's shoulder, prepared to pull away if it's the wrong thing to do. Instead, Rebecca leans into her, opens her arms to hold onto her. Valencia is startled, but embraces her back, Rebecca's hair soft against her neck. It's unfamiliar, being this close to someone she isn't dating, but... it doesn't feel bad. It feels... close. Valencia holds her, feels Rebecca's breathing slowly steady.

"God," says Rebecca when the two separate. "It feels like I'm vibrating, or collapsing or something." She chokes out a laugh like broken glass. "I'm so _angry._ I just wanna scream."

"So go for it," Valencia says.

Rebecca blinks. "Like, now?"

"Why not? It's not like a more scream-worthy moment's going to come along any time soon."

"I dunno." Rebecca sniffs. "It seems pretty crazy."

Now you're worried about that? Valencia thinks. But she says, "Would you honestly expect anyone in your situation to feel sane right now? Come on. I'll start."

And before Rebecca has a chance to stop her — before Valencia has a chance to stop herself — she's on her feet, climbing up onto the picnic table and looking out over the tranquil waves, taking a deep breath, opening her mouth, and splitting the air with a shriek. Seagulls scatter in a flurry of wings, disappearing into the inconsiderately picturesque sky. When Valencia's lungs are empty, her ears ringing with the aftermath of decibels, she smirks, steps down, and calmly pronounces, "Your turn."

Rebecca stares at her, so stunned she even forgets to cry. "What am I supposed to yell?"

Valencia flicks her wrist dismissively. "I'm sure you can think of something." In demonstration, she reascends the table, cups her hands over her mouth, and hollers, "Screw you, ocean!" Smiling, she says, "See? Easy."

Rebecca walks up beside her and chimes (well, bellows) in, her voice growing in confidence and volume, "Yeah, you're not even close to two hours out of town you DECEPTIVE BASTARD!"

Their voices ring back off the rough rocks, wash over the whispers of the waves.

"Frat boys surf on you in stupid shorts!" calls Valencia.

"Fish pee in you!"

Valencia makes a face. "Ew."

"Sorry."

"No, no, keep going, yell something."

The tightness in Valencia's chest and shoulders eases a bit. Gross imagery or not, it's a relief to hear Rebecca say something so Rebecca-like.

"Screw you, you majestic shithead!" Rebecca shouts out at the indifferent waves.

"Don't ignore us when we're talking to you!" Valencia adds.

"Yeah! We're not the ones being dramatic! You think you can give us the silent treatment!?"

"That you can ignore all your problems and we'll just pick up after you!"

"And what can God do for you that I can't, anyway?"

"You'll talk to telemarketers but don't have time for us?"

"Did Jesus help you with your job application? Did he mail you soup?"

"You'd still be living with your mom if I hadn't been there!"

"Did Jesus make you breakfast ramen?"

"You cheating ass!"

"What kind of grown man eats ramen with chocolate sauce?"

"AAAAAAAAAAA!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Together they yell until their lungs are empty, voices combining in one great sound of accumulated frustration at their combination-ocean-slash-ex. They pour out all the noise they can gather inside themselves, the indifferent water waving on, hushing with gentle wind. Their shouts reverberate off the cliffs, bouncing out, fractured and carried on the currents stretching on beyond perception. Somewhere in the distance, an unseen dog responds with a frenzy of yapping.

As she inhales for another "AAAAA" Valencia hears a faraway siren echoing over the hills. "That wouldn't be for—"

"No, yeah, that's for us" says Rebecca, scrambling down off the table, "disturbing the peace, that's a thing, let's book it."

Valencia follows her lead, breaking into a sprint towards the parking lot, through the gold-edged grass, past the vacant guest-chairs.

Valencia, the faster runner, leads them to her car, climbing into the front seat and unlocking the passenger side for the other woman. A second later, Rebecca sits down beside her, face flushed and struggling to catch her breath. Valencia tries to give an encouraging smile, but Rebecca's breathing continues to quicken, until she's almost hyperventilating, and it's clear this is more than just struggling with cardio.

"It's okay," says Valencia. "We're safe, just two friends, totally unsuspiciously in a car, doing... driving things. Come on, breathe with me — in — out."

Rebecca nods, follows along. Gradually she mostly catches her breath, though her eyes remain nervous, wild.

For a moment, the two sit in silence. Looking at their reflections in the windshield, Valencia sees how exhausted the other woman is. Her hair is tangled with wind, mascara smudged smoky. A corner of her mouth trembles, like she's consciously controlling every facial muscle to remain moderately composed. Valencia thinks of her, going home to that house still littered with wedding supplies, mementos of Josh Chan.

"Hey," she says quietly, after a few moments have passed. "Why don't you stay with me tonight? Or I can drive you to Paula's —"

Rebecca looks down. "Paula's still working things out with her husband. I don't want to get in the way."

"Okay. So is my place okay?"

Rebecca nods. "Thanks," she says finally. After a pause, she looks up at Valencia and adds, "That's nice of you." Her voice is very tired.

"Hey, no one's ever said I'm not nice."

Rebecca looks as if she's about to say something, then stops herself. With a shaky smile, she says, "Yeah. Anyway, thank you. For... all of this."

"It's okay."

"Can we just sit here a bit longer?"

"Of course."

Rebecca stares through the windshield, looking out into the sky's endless, empty blue. The burnt gold light deepens over the landscape as the day draws to an end, and her tears begin again, this time silently. On the seat divider, Rebecca's hand, taps out a shaky, accidental drumbeat. Gently, Valencia places her own hand on top to still the trembling.

Rebecca reaches for her, entwines their fingers. And holds on.


	2. chicken and rosé

Rebecca Bunch stares out the passenger window as palm trees and beachfront fade into billboards and housing complexes, shadows lengthening as the day draws to a close.

"Do you want the radio on?" says Valencia, in that softly bright voice Rebecca is learning means_ I don't know what to do, but I want to help._

"No. My head hurts." It's true, just not the whole truth. Songs will make her think — about love, or breakups, or just generally existing. The last thing she wants right now is to think. She focuses on the darkening asphalt, the white lines scrolling endlessly beneath the bottom of the car, tries to let them hypnotize her.

All she wants is for this to be a dream. For her whole life to be a dream. To go to sleep and wake up in the morning as someone, anyone, besides Rebecca Nora Bunch. Some non-intense, non-obsessive, non-_crazy_ person who doesn't scare away the people she most wants to love her.

"Hey," says Valencia, as they enter the city core. Gas station lights and fast food advertisements dye the air neon beneath the cobalt clouds. With an elegantly manicured nail, Valencia points to one of the cherry-red billboards. "It's that restaurant you like. We could get the, what's it called, the stripper chicken bucket."

For a moment, Rebecca is so perplexed she forgets to be in existential despair. "You mean Dairy Queen?" she says. "You mean the chicken stripsbasket?"

"Right," says Valencia, "that one. You said it was your favourite."

And despite herself, Rebecca laughs. "Stripper chicken bucket? Really?"

"In my defense, I know very little about fast food culture," says Valencia.

She says it so seriously that Rebecca can't help but laugh again. At all of it: here she is, in a car with her close friend / former rival / super-cool-lady-inspiration / breaking and entering accomplice / Friendtopia Czar of Torture / wedding planner / ex's ex, on a day that began with, not to be dramatic, but literally the most disastrous wedding in the history of human existence, and is now ending in... chicken. Apparently.

Here she is, her mind torturing her up with looping memories of everyone who's left her. And here is Valencia by her side despite all odds, genuinely showing that she cares. Offering up the awkward and ordinary and oddly sweet gesture of (mostly) remembering a comfort food Rebecca had mentioned, one time, months ago.

Abandonment has always felt like obliteration to Rebecca. Like the absolute worst pain, a scream in her mind telling her of her differentness, her worthlessness, her absolute aloneness in the world. Her incurable unlovableness.

When Josh didn't come, wasn't coming, it felt like confirmation of all the worst things she had ever thought about herself. It felt like proof: _you will never have the things a normal person has. Something is deeply wrong with you and everyone can tell. And they will leave you because of it._ She felt like she couldn't survive that feeling. She felt like she had no reason to.

Yet here she is. Despite everything her brain had said, everything other people had said, despite Josh not wanting to be with her... she's still here. And she isn't even alone. Valencia is right beside her, rolling her eyes and saying, "Okay, you're right. I guess it is kind of funny."

Rebecca's vision fogs up again, though this time it isn't a wave of despair but some other emotion. As much as she loves and believes in female solidarity, Rebecca never could have anticipated... any of this.

It is funny.

"You know what?" says Rebecca. "Chicken strips would be great, actually."

A moment later, they've ordered (and Valencia has confused the server by requesting a spinach and green mango salad for herself), and soon there she is, eating chicken strips in tear-streaked makeup and a grass-stained wedding dress, laughing with Valencia and feeling, for a moment, okay.

**x**

When they arrive at Valencia's apartment, the brunette gives Rebecca a loose West Covina Yoga Studios t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants to change into as pajamas — Rebecca recognizes them from Valencia's own post-Josh spiral and isn't sure how to feel about that. Like, at least she's not alone in this, but reliving someone else's breakup is... weird, to say the least.

She takes in the decor of the apartment; tasteful teak furniture, colourful vases, a yoga mat, airy curtains and an ornament of brightly polished stones on strings, catching the light from the spacious window. All of it neatly arranged, dustless. Almost untouched.

Rebecca's eyes are drawn to an intricate wood carving of an elephant.

"I got that in India," says Valencia.

"You were in India?"

"Two years ago, for four months. I have an aunt there. Then I went to Thailand, China, and Pakistan."

"You never mentioned any of that!"

"Yeah. I like, used to travel more, but it put pressure on my relationship with J— anyway, I decided to stay closer to West Covina."

Rebecca mines her memory for a relevant quotation from feminist masterpiece _Blood and Lice_. Unable to find one, she speaks from her heart: "Valencia, you are so perfect. You don't have to change yourself for a man."

Valencia gives her a look in which her eyes seem to x-ray through Rebecca's own past: smoothie phase, vegan phase, surfer phase, hipster phase, nü metal Steve phase (let's just forget that one, there's no way Valencia could possibly know about her high school neighbour Stephen Akimoto's Linkin Park cover band and Rebecca's short lived but passionate foray into suburban mallgoth subculture... right?). A look like, _seriously, Rebecca?_

"But anyway," says Rebecca, breaking away from Valencia's gaze. "Whatever your reason for being here, in West Covina... I'm glad you are. I'm glad I met you."

"Me too," says Valencia. When Rebecca looks up, the other woman is smiling softly, her dark brown eyes warm with hints of gold. And Rebecca has the strangest sense that if she doesn't look away, she won't be able to stop looking.

Something about the way Valencia speaks, the way she carries herself, never fails to draw Rebecca in. Her confidence and blunt wit, the occasional openings in her self-possessed armour revealing unexpected depth. Her micro-expressions, surprise or affection lighting or softening her sharp features, her dark-lashed eyes and elegantly curved lips (oh no, she's looking again).

At first, Rebecca thought she wanted to be Valencia. To possess that dignity, beauty, and confidence for herself. But now, she realizes, that isn't it. What draws her in is how Valencia is so purely herself. One of a kind and proud of it. Impossible to replicate.

It's unfamiliar to Rebecca, herself so prone to picking up mannerisms and personality traits of those around her, who's always wanted so badly to fit in. Valencia is solid in herself. She knows who she is.

And Rebecca's would never want her to be anyone else.

"What is it?" says Valencia.

"Nothing," says Rebecca, too quickly. Then, "You know, I was just thinking. You visit Heather and me all the time, but now that I think about it, we never really come over here."

"You and Heather have a nice place," says Valencia, too quickly.

"Our place," says Rebecca slowly, "where the roof fell in." And that's not even mentioning the bagel crumbs, room-hoarded cereal bowls, half-bottle of dessert wine forgotten in the bathroom, and Heather's inexplicable habit of forgetting her pants on the kitchen table —_ seriously, why on the kitchen table?_

"Okay, well, being with you two is nice. When I'm here I'm on my own, just stuck with the—" she gestures vaguely —"memories. This is the first time since high school I've had a friend group. I like being in that space." She says it quickly, as though to get the vulnerability over with as soon as possible.

An avalanche of affection tumbles over Rebecca. "Aww. That's really touching."

Valencia scoffs, but smiles. "Yeah, what can I say. First humor and now feelings. You're getting to me, Bunch."

She strides over to the kitchen island. "Anyway, do you want rosé?"

"Pft, obvs."

Valencia pours two glasses, the liquid sparkling pale pink in the fading light that gilds the room. When Valencia brings her the drink, Rebecca is examining a picture of Valencia at a colourful outdoor event, standing in a silver dress and heels, flashing a perfect smile beside an older man and woman, surrounded by a plethora of children and teenagers.

"My sister's quinceañera," says Valencia. "That's her." Valencia points to a pretty, dark-haired girl, her grin a shimmer of braces. "And my little brother." She points to a preteen boy in a slightly too big suit, his hands in his pockets. "That's my mom and step-dad." The older couple beside her.

"Your mom's really beautiful," says Rebecca. The older Latina woman's confident posture and dark, sharp eyes resemble Valencia's.

For a moment Valencia doesn't say anything. Rebecca worries she's said something wrong. "Do you two get along?" she asks, then regrets it — what if the question just makes it more uncomfortable for V?

But Valencia answers, "Yeah, mostly. We're both intense people, so we argue. But I admire her. That's why I named myself after her maiden name."

"Valencia," says Rebecca, "meaning brave."

"Yeah. And it suits her. She was young when she had me, and she did a good job — but with just the two of us, I had to get independent pretty early. And then she had this new husband, and these two little kids — so most of my life it's been me on my own. Which is... fine." Her face softens. "But it's been a good change, having you and Heather around."

"Yeah," says Rebecca. "I feel that. When I lived in New York I didn't really have anyone — just go to work, and then back home by myself, then... actually, that's pretty much it. Every day." She pauses. "You know, it's weird. I thought Josh was what was keeping me here. But ever without him, I've felt more at home in West Covina then I ever have anywhere else."

Valencia raises her glass. "To being here," she says, and they clink.

**x**

The evening passes in talk about their families and travelling (Valencia never knew Rebecca had volunteered in Ghana), Valencia preparing them a homemade green curry while Rebecca helps chop vegetables, the occasional rant about Josh (from both of them), and another glass of rosé apiece until they've finished it off. There had only been half a bottle to begin with, which is why Valencia had offered it — she's well aware moderation is not in Rebecca's vocabulary. Especially when stress is involved.

Even so, two glasses of wine is enough to inspire several teary-eyes confessions from Rebecca about how grateful she is to Valencia, how glad she is to have her in her life. Or maybe that's not the rosé talking.

Valencia reciprocates as best she can, telling Rebecca she's grateful to know her, too, embracing the other woman with inexperienced hugs. It's a pleasant, if awkward, feeling. Rebecca's hair smells of flowers and mango shampoo. She holds Valencia tightly, closely, in way that makes her feel... wanted.

She's not used to that. The last time she had close friends had been over a decade ago, and they'd been a two-faced clique, ready to turn on her if she wore last season's shoes or had an uncool interest or hooked up with the English teacher or whatever. She'd had plenty of admirers, male and female, but that wasn't the same as a friend. Though they liked ogling her, Valencia saw through to their lack of interest in her as a person. Somehow, all the staring made her feel even more unseen.

The only one who'd been different had been... well, Josh. Like, yeah, he wanted to sleep with her, obviously, but who didn't, and besides, it wasn't just that. He listened to her. Believed in her, encouraged her to pursue her interest in yoga, celebrated her achievements and held her when she was sad. Made her feel like a real person.

She tried to support him the same way, though she knows that in recent years she failed. And so did he. He stopped asking what she wanted, spent more and more time away, tuned out when she talked. Sure, he had a carefree charm, but it would have been nice if he _did_ care. Just a little.

Slowly, she realized that she was being used after all. Not for sex, or popularity, but because Josh couldn't stand to be alone. Maybe he didn't even realize it, but she did. And it left her with an underlying rage, at him, at herself, made her distant and rude. Near the end of their relationship, she hated the words she heard come out of her mouth, hated the way she tried to control him. Hurt as she was, he deserved better. They both did.

And then came Rebecca to complicate Valencia's entire worldview. Rebecca listened to her, genuinely seemed to enjoy being around her — like Josh at the start of his and Valencia's relationship, but different. Rebecca was clever, not only enthusiastic but engaged (cringe, poor choice of words) in the conversation, sharing information Valencia hadn't known, rather than offering up that her favourite animal was Antarctica. It was _exciting_, talking to someone who was both interested and interesting. Valencia hadn't realized how much she'd missed that, how long it had been.

She'd never met anyone like Rebecca.

And then Rebecca kissed her. That sense of being used rushed back to her — _of course she doesn't actually care about talking to me. Of course it was all a ploy for sex. How could I have been so stupid?_

She rushed out, furious, expecting to never see Rebecca again.

And then she did. And then she did again.

What did this woman want? Like, clearly she wanted to get with Josh, but then what was the point of trying to hang out with Valencia? She totally didn't get it. Rebecca really did seem to want to spend time with her.

And the truth is, Valencia wanted that too.

After she and Josh had broken up, Valencia had been planning to move away from West Covina. She had no ties to anyone here — she was well aware Josh's friends didn't like her — and she could teach yoga anywhere. She could learn more, get paid better, advance her career. All West Covina seemed to hold were memories of a failed relationship, a close-knit community that excluded her, and an immobilizing sense of stagnation.

And Rebecca. Somehow, in this tiny town, Rebecca Bunch was living this exciting lawyer life, stirring up more drama than West Covina had seen in twenty years, sharing confusingly-explained feminist theory, and trying to be her friend.

Rebecca saw her at her worst and pulled her out of carb-filled, post-Josh depression. Made her believe in herself again.

And so, for the time being, Valencia decided to stay.

As Rebecca hugs her, saying how glad she is to have Valencia in her life, Valencia embraces her back. She's not sure how to show it, but the truth is, she feels the same gratitude.

And like she has on a few previous occasions, Valencia catches herself imagining how she might react if Rebecca were to kiss her now. How it might feel.

Friendship is confusing on so many levels.

It's past 11 by the time they clear away the dishes, both of them exhausted from the events of the day. "You can have my bed," says Valencia.

"Oh, I couldn't —"

"Please. After the day you've had, you deserve cashmere."

"Thanks, V. You really are the best."

"Oh, I know," she says, and they both smile.

A moment later, Rebecca is laying on her queen-size mattress under the silky blanket, hair on the pillow in a curly gold halo. As Valencia moves to turn off the light, Rebecca says, "Hey, um, Valencia?"

"Yeah?"

Rebecca's eyes are shy, not quite meeting hers. "I know this is kinda weird, and you can say no, but... do you want to stay here?" Rebecca winces slightly. "I know it's stupid, but I feel weird about being alone."

"Sure," says Valencia. Why not? The bed has room enough for both of them. And she's glad, in some small way, to be able to help Rebecca feel better.

Valencia tidies up her dresser, sets out her morning vitamins, straightens the books on ashtanga yoga technique, and clicks off the lights.

"Valencia?" says Rebecca groggily, at least half-asleep.

"I'm here," says Valencia, "I'm right here."

Eyes closed, Rebecca "mmm"s contentedly as Valencia snuggles in next to her.

For the first time in weeks, Rebecca sleeps soundly.


	3. the perfect woman

Rebecca drifts in and out of sleep, gradually becoming aware of the unfamiliar texture of the blankets around her, the apricot light that isn't quite like morning in her own room. For a moment she lays peacefully, limbs starfished across the bed, unaware and unconcerned with where or who she is.

Then she remembers.

The previous day's disaster sinks into her stomach like a fist. Rebecca rubs the sleep from her eyes, then groans into her hands.

_Well, guess I'd better get up._ It's not her first choice, but dissolving into the air by sheer force of will doesn't seem to be an option. Though if she were in her own bed, she'd certainly try. But she doesn't want to inconvenience Valencia.

Valencia. Rebecca's insides do that weird flippy thing. Valencia had been there for her. Beautiful, cool, actually-surprisingly-considerate Valencia had wanted to help her.

Even after the long, long list of everything that has happened between them, through some twist of luck Valencia still cares about her.

And then Rebecca is baffled to realize she's thinking of herself as lucky, today of all days. She tries to identify what she's feeling but can't put words to it. Maybe Dr. Akopian can refer her to a remedial class on how to be a person.

After crawling out of bed and straightening the sheets, Rebecca runs her fingers through her hair and tries her best to impersonate an emotionally-functional woman. Looking in Valencia's full-length mirror, she uses her index finger to fix her smudged eyeliner. It's not as effective as she'd like it to be — the shadows somewhat rub off, but she's still a puffy-eyed, tired-looking, bagel-after-midnight eater. Standing back, she turns side to side, wondering what Valencia sees in her.

_Maybe she feels sorry for me. That's probably it._

Finding her purse on the dresser, Rebecca digs through for her cell.

27 unread messages.

Sighing, Rebecca slips the phone back into her bag.

**x**

She finds Valencia in the living room, stretching out on a yoga mat. Rebecca tries to sneak by without interrupting, but Valencia looks up and smiles, her dark eyes shining in a way that makes Rebecca somehow — embarrassed? excited? — to be the object of her attention. "You're awake," says Valencia, rising to her feet with a sunny smile.

"As are you," Rebecca says. _Very astute observation. Great conversational skills there, Bunch._

God Valencia is pretty. Like an angel with really great abs.

"There's breakfast in the kitchen," says Valencia, leading them there. "Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

"Personality and sleep disorders," Rebecca mumbles, then cringes when she realizes she's said it out loud.

"What?"

"Nothing." Rebecca leans on the table in what she hopes is a reasonable facsimile of a casual pose. "So, like, what did I talk about?"

"Is that… comfortable?"

Rebecca, realizing her casual pose has somehow ended up with her elbow behind her head says, "Yup! Morning stretches! You know me, all about that musculature health." She stretches her leg behind her to demonstrate, then tries not to wince as she bends something that apparently isn't meant to bend. "So, anyway, what did I talk about?"

"I don't know, it was mostly mumbling. Something about roasted corn."

A wave of relief moves over Rebecca, and she isn't quite sure why. It's not like she's keeping secrets from V — not anymore, at least. Yet she can't quite shake the anxiety that Valencia wouldn't like her anymore if she knew… what? How cool Rebecca thinks she is? It's not like Rebecca hasn't already told her that herself.

Valencia adds, "Also, you hugged my arm a lot."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. I felt very loved."

Valencia sets down two plates on the table, a bowl of salad, sliced fruit and vegetables, and a bagel.

"Did you pick that up just for me?" says Rebecca, her eyes lighting on the gluten-y delicacy.

"Yeah, I taught a class at six this morning and stopped by the Jewish deli on my way home."

"Aww, you brought me the food of my people."

"By the way, these sprouts are all yours, too."

"Right. No legumes."

"You remembered," says Valencia, a note of surprise in her voice.

"Yeah, of course. I like listening to what you have to say."

Rebecca starts eating, then realizes Valencia is watching her. Suddenly self-conscious of the sprouts emerging from her mouth like tiny tentacles, she lifts her hand to cover her mouth, swallowing. "What is it?"

"Oh," says Valencia, seeming to snap out of a trance. "Nothing, just…" She pauses, as though deciding whether to continue, then goes on, "I was thinking about how I missed hanging out with you. It's good to spend time with you again."

"Yeah, I should get left at the altar more often."

Silence falls between them like a sheet.

"Was that… humour?" Valencia finally asks.

"Sorry. Yeah, no, I don't know what that was." Rebecca laughs awkwardly. "It's good to spend time with you again, too."

Poking at a slice of orange with her fork, Rebecca says, "What I meant… what I should have said…" She takes a breath and tries to organize her thoughts, then looks Valencia in the eyes. "Look. Yesterday was one of the worst days of my life, okay? Worst case scenario, all of that. Except… it wasn't. I mean, yeah, ha, it was a disaster, but it wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. I thought… I thought if I lost Josh, my life would be over. But… it's not. I'm still here, and obviously I'm not thrilled about what happened, but I'm okay. I was so scared that if I lost Josh I'd lose everything. And for a while I thought I had, but then… you were there."

Rebecca continues, her voice stronger, "I just want you to know, I meant everything I said to you when we first met — I think you're incredible. And the more I get to know you, the more I believe that. When Josh didn't show up, I thought there was no way my life could ever be okay. But it is. I am. And so much of that is because of you, how you've been here for me. You make my life better by being in it. Even if things had to totally fall apart for me to realize that... I'm glad I did. I'm glad you're in my life. That's what I was trying to say."

Valencia lays her hand on the table, on top of Rebecca's. "You make my life better, too."

The two women smile. Around them, the day begins.

**x**

After Valencia drives her home, Rebecca spends several minutes with her key in her hands, trying to psych herself up to open the door. She's grateful Valencia can't see her like this — she'd had to go teach another yoga class, and although she'd offered to cancel, Rebecca didn't want to ask any more of her. Besides, she kind of just wants to sit in her apartment, eat ice cream, and become a blanket burrito for the rest of the day.

She's about to turn the knob when the door moves away on its own accord. Or at least, that's what it seems like at first — Paula is standing in the doorway, a cardboard box tucked under her arm.

When she sees Rebecca, her eyes widen, then soften as she pulls the younger woman into a hug. "Oh, cookie. Did you get my texts?"

Rebecca hugs her tightly. "I did, I'm sorry, I just needed not to think for a while. Valencia looked after me."

To her surprise, Paula shows no signs of jealousy. She doesn't even make a joke about Valencia's name. "I'm just glad you're safe." She says, posture visibly relaxing. She takes a step back, examines Rebecca (who is still dressed in the t-shirt and sweatpants from Valencia's post-breakup stage). "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay," says Rebecca. She's surprised by the strength in her own voice. Surprised to realize she means it.

Seeing movement in the background, she cranes her neck to see Heather in their apartment, also carrying a box. There's not a trace of lacy debris in sight. "You guys cleaned up the wedding stuff?" A wave of love overtakes her, her eyes clouding as she pulls Paula into another embrace.

"Duh, of course," says Heather, walking over to join in.

"The last thing you needed was anything more to deal with," says Paula.

"Aww." Rebecca holds them both close.

Heather stands stiffly but embraces her as well. "I'm not really sure what to do with my arms in this, like, blob of friendship. But I want you to know I'm directing affection at you."

"I feel it," says Rebecca. And she does.

**x**

As the week passes, Rebecca and Paula bond over tearful and vengeful heart-to-hearts. Well, rants, but heartfelt rants. Paula is a font of ideas, be it hacking Josh's Facebook, ordering strippers to interrupt his next church session, or mildly poisoning him with one of Nathanial's smoothies.

Rebecca, however, has other plans.

Yes, she's furious. But unlike Paula's, her rage doesn't run in one direction. Yes, Josh betrayed and abandoned her. But the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes she should have seen it coming. That she should have _stopped_ it coming.

You don't graduate top of your class at Harvard if you can't self-critique. Rebecca's always been good at pushing herself — pinpointing her mistakes, and yeah, maybe obsessing about them a _little_, but it works, doesn't it? She's a fantastic lawyer, she speaks three languages, she made his family love her (or, well, they did, and she can fix that again). She's sophisticated as fuck.

And if Josh had seen her at the top of her game, he would know that. If she'd just been_ better_, he wouldn't have left.

Rebecca is well aware these aren't what Dr. Akopian would call "balanced thoughts" (her brain makes sarcastic airquotes even as she thinks the phrase). But where has balance ever gotten anyone? Extremity doesn't have to be a bad thing. She can be extremely hardworking, extremely self-controlled, extremely brilliant, extremely charming, absolutely unstoppable.

She notices the glances at work, Darryl's gentle way of asking if she's okay. No, she isn't okay, and why should she be? Why should she settle for okay when she can be fucking amazing?

So when Darryl tells her he's there to talk, she simply nods and asks that he pull up all the files he can and leave her to work. And when Paula wants to conspire, she enjoys the outlet for her frustrations, but nevertheless knows that things will work out. Things will be _fantastic._

No one can abandon you if you're indispensable. Right?

Soon, Josh Chan will rue the day he left the perfect woman. Soon he'll want her back. Maybe she'll accept him, maybe she won't. But whatever the case, she'll be in control.

And everything will be perfect.

As long as she can keep pushing herself. As long as she can keep it together.

_Who needs Adderall when you have avoidance issues?_ that little voice in her internal monologue, the one that sounds eerily similar to Dr. Phil, chimes in.

_I'm not avoiding anything_, Rebecca replies, plugging headphones into her computer as she settles in to work._ I'm being... proactive. Goal-driven._

_Now, I know denial when I see it,_ continues disembodied Dr. Phil. _I ain't some Hassidic hillbilly with a snoot full of honeybees—_

Rebecca clicks on a Broadway playlist, blasting him out of her earways with "What You Own" from Rent before he can finish that incredibly southern — and possibly anti-Semitic? — sentiment.

**x**

The drive home is the hardest part. At work Rebecca can block out her thoughts with plans, action, to-do lists tiled across her desk. And when she's with others, she can focus on the interaction.

But, alone and undistracted, her thoughts eat her alive. Her mind races and anxiety creeps in with its familiar grip on her heart. Sometimes she has to pull over until she can breathe again.

By the time she gets home, she's exhausted.

In the past she would have ignored that; back in New York, she'd negotiate with clients until nightfall, making her voice cheerful and peppy even when she wasn't able to pry herself out of bed. She'd pore over paperwork for hours, looking for loopholes and small-print clauses, numbed out and propped up by a combination of take-out, pots of coffee, and heavy medication. She'd spend days of her life like this, stomach churning with acidity, chest feeling so hollow it might collapse, but undeniably productive. Telling herself, _this is what happy feels like._

But in West Covina, things are different. Heather invites her to watch bad reality shows, and to her surprise she accepts. There are texts from Paula and Valencia, checking in with her, sharing the latest gossip (Nathaniel wants to suspend Karen for trying to sell sex toys at her snake's custody hearing, and she's arguing that her contract has no specific rule against this), or inviting her to ladies' night at Spider's (Spiders? Spiders'?).

She puts her papers away, answers her texts, and settles down on the sofa beside Heather, feeling herself smile.

"You know, we're actually all pretty well-adjusted," says Rebecca, as one of the real housewives takes off her prosthetic leg and throws it, Jimmy Choo and all, at another woman during an elaborate dinner party.

"Totally," says Heather. Rebecca can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not. Grabbing a handful of popcorn, she decides it's probably best not to ask.

**x**

As the weeks pass, one of the things that most surprises her is how much time she spends with Valencia. Although she finds comfort in Paula's fierce care, and looks up to Heather's coolness, what she has with Valencia is... different.

When her phone lights up with a text and she sees Valencia's name, her breath catches and her heart speeds up. It's like anxiety except... also nice?

Meeting Valencia in the evenings, she frequently finds herself wishing the night would never end. She could listen to Valencia talk forever; Rebecca loves the cadence of her voice, the way she moves, the warmth in her eyes when she talks about her yoga or travel plans. Valencia's smile is always picture-perfect, her skin clear and hair shiny no matter what is going on in her life — but in her eyes, Rebecca learns to pick up the subtle hints of what she's feeling. The slight hesitation in her gaze when, beneath her polished mannerisms, she's sad or worried. And the light, that soft spark that comes out when she's really, truly happy. Rebecca loves that spark.

Obviously she tries not to spend too much time gazing hypnotized into her friend's face, but nevertheless, the hollowness in her chest dissipates whenever V meets her gaze, replaced by a kind of humming, fluttering feeling. Sitting down to lunch or drinks with her, the colours of West Covina park brighten, the green of trees deep and vibrant, and even the hum of bees becomes more of an ornamentation than an annoyance. The world is somehow amplified, beautiful in all its detail. She feels really here. Connected.

And, unlike with a lot of people Rebecca has admired, this doesn't feel one-sided. Valencia listens to her, nods, asks questions. When Rebecca's throat catches talking about Josh or her family, Valencia puts her hand on hers and something inside Rebecca steadies.

When Valencia looks at her, she feels seen. When Valencia is with her, Rebecca doesn't feel trapped inside herself.

At first they talk mostly about Josh, the most obvious common ground. "He thought Harry Potter was an autobiography," Valencia tells her over a very fancy water. "It's not even written in first person." But with each conversation, they realize they have a lot more in common than a mutual ex. They're both intensely ambitious, even if their fields are very different. Valencia gets wrapped up in Rebecca's stories, appreciating the thrill of besting an opponent or winning a case, and Rebecca is likewise impressed by the work Valencia puts into teaching yoga and running her studio. The two women cheer each other on in their accomplishments, clinking glasses of rosé and sending each other texts filled with exclamation marks.

Rebecca has always been impressed by Valencia's composure, but she also loves seeing this enthusiastic, sometimes even silly, side of her personality. It's like when they first met, how they'd talk and laugh late into the night, but now without the denial or subterfuge. There's no Josh between them now — when they hang out, it's simply to enjoy each other's presence. Soon they don't talk about him much at all — not because they're avoiding the topic, but because there's so much else to discuss.

With each interaction, her sense of who Valencia is grows and deepens. Rebecca never wants to stop learning, discovering new sides to her. For all her social media stalking of the past, this is the most she's ever gotten to know who Valencia really is.

Valencia opens up about her own anxieties. "Do you think I had too much salad?" she says one evening after dinner, running a hand down her sparkling gold dress. "I feel really bloated."

Rebecca knows Valencia is self-conscious about these kind of things, but it still always surprises her. Valencia is so beautiful — like, not that size matters, she'd be the same stunning deity regardless of dress size. But how can Valencia, someone who comes across as so confident and in-control, be so self-critical underneath it all?

Rebecca wants to offer solutions — all this great feminist literature! Latest scientific studies! The wise words of Professor Goddess! — but she knows Valencia tunes out when she talks like that. Rebecca can't really blame her; were she in Valencia's place, she wouldn't exactly be looking to her left-at-the-altar-friend for life advice. So this time, instead of trying to solve everything, Rebecca listens to her.

"I don't think you _can_ eat too much salad, "says Rebecca. "I mean, it's leaves, that's about as natural as it gets."

"Yeah, but that tamarind dressing, with my blood type... I mean, what would my students think if they saw me?"

"Probably, 'Oh! There's my super cool yoga teacher and her fabulous friend. Just two smokin' hot ladies who do dinner together.'" Rebecca, unlike Valencia, had opted for wine rather than fancy water. Nice, brain-fuzzing, definitely-not-bloodtype-approved wine. She's quite pleased with this decision, wellness coaches be damned.

Valencia smiles, but the hesitation in her eyes remains. "I don't know. I just worry about not being good enough."

Rebecca has to keep her jaw from dropping to the pavement — how could someone as incredible as Valencia be plagued by the same insecurities as mere mortals like herself? "You could eat all the leaves in the world and you'd still be good enough. Or like, none of the leaves, whichever is worse. Either way, anyone would be lucky to learn from you."

"Thanks. I don't know, I worry about it. It's like, if I could just focus my energy into this perfect little ball of self-control and success, nothing could hurt me. I'd be... I don't know. Permanently happy." She waves a hand in dismissal of her own thought. "Though obviously that's a ridiculous idea."

"No, I know that feeling," says Rebecca. She moves closer, putting her arm around Valencia's waist. The wine is making her cuddly. Or more accurately, less concerned about containing the physical affection she usually wants to show towards Valencia. Valencia seems comfortable with the contact, leaning into Rebecca, whose heart quickens. "But to be honest, I'm pretty happy right now," Rebecca says.

Valencia thinks for a moment. "Yeah. I guess I am too."

She smiles again, and this time, Rebecca can tell she means it.

"You know, you're a pretty special person," says Valencia.

"So I've been told. In a variety of tones of voice."

"Well, this tone of voice means I'm glad you came to West Covina. Even if things had to go totally off the rails... this place would be pretty dull without you."

They walk together amongst graffiti-spattered walls, beneath powerlines gleaming in the moonlight. After a moment, Valencia says, "You know, I never understood why you like it here so much. I thought you'd want to move away after... you know. You could start over. What's keeping you here?"

"Well, for one thing, you just happen to live here," says Rebecca, which makes Valencia laugh — God, Rebecca loves the sound of her laugh. "And, I mean, all my friends. I dunno." She shrugs. "I guess it's the first place that's ever really felt like home."

"I guess I can understand that," says Valencia. "Even if I'm constantly fighting off the impulse to, like, run away to India."

"Well, for the record, I would not object to a chance to see India, so please feel free to pack me in your suitcase. Though you might hear your luggage eating bagels at midnight. Or like, naan."

As they walk past closed storefronts, Rebecca sees a familiar sight up ahead. Speaking of gluten... "Oh my God, is the giant pretzel down? The giant pretzel is down."

"It looks like they're adding mustard?" says Valencia, as the landmark comes more clearly into sight. West Covina's definitive local artwork, the massive pretzel usually situated on top of the snack shop, dangles a few feet above the ground via a chain attached to a crane, next to gleaming buckets of what must be paint.

"Come on, let's climb it," says Rebecca. "I'll race you."

"Uch, why do all your favourite activities have to be illegal?"

Rebecca sticks out her tongue. "Mleh."

"Oh, did they teach you that in law school?" Ignoring Valencia's words, Rebecca begins a tipsy sprint. "Okay, stop stop stop." She reaches for Rebecca's hand and the other woman falls into Valencia's arms, giggling.

Looking into her eyes, Valencia says, "You are way too important to me for you to break your neck swinging from a giant pretzel."

Rebecca is genuinely touched. "Aww. Val—"

"And I never lose a contest." Disentangling herself, Valencia takes off in a dash.

"Hey!" Rebecca runs after her.

Valencia makes it to the pretzel a few seconds before Rebecca — up close, it's more than a few feet off the ground, and she has to lift herself in a pull-up to climb into one of the pretzel-loops. Rebecca jumps, catches onto the other side, swings up her legs to wrap around the pretzel from underneath, then cries out as she gets stuck in that position. Valencia helps her clamber up, Rebecca's vision spinning wildly with the ground swaying beneath her. By the time she's safely atop, she's out of breath with the mix of excitement, relief, and laughter.

"Okay, you win," says Rebecca, after a deep breath.

"What's my prize?" says Valencia playfully. If Rebecca didn't know better, she might even say flirtatiously.

Her heart speeds up again. Trying to stay cool, she says, "Well, how about I take you to dinner next week? I have a client who might be able to pull some strings, get us into that really exclusive sushi place."

"Deal."

They sit side by side, one in each loop, as the pretzel slows its swaying. The moon shines brightly through layers of deepening navy, and with the stores' florescence turned off for the night, the stars are visible in the California sky. A faint ocean breeze wafts on the cool air.

Slowly their hands creep towards each other; Rebecca isn't sure who initiates it, but soon their fingers are entwined, each woman feeling the warmth of the other's palm. They sit, wordless and calm, looking out over the silvery blue evening.

And for once, Rebecca isn't thinking about being anywhere else, being anyone else. For once, she's just feeling good. For once she's just... happy.

Suddenly, the air ruptures in a creaking, cracking sound. The pretzel shifts, and both of them let out a yelp, scrambling back towards the earth. Rebecca is the first to get down, landing on her hands and knees with the help of many ill-advised adventures' worth of muscle memory. She reaches out to catch Valencia, guiding her towards the ground.

As they stand back, they see a noticeable crack in the top of the pretzel.

"Eh, the mustard should cover it," says Valencia.

"That's it, I'm filing a lawsuit for a safety hazard," says Rebecca. "How are the good citizens of West Covina supposed to know this large, imitation baked good cannot sustainably support the full body weight of two fully grown adult women? This is a travesty."

"Let's get out before anyone sees us," says V, and the two walk, briskly and un-suspiciously as possible, from the scene of the crime. A few blocks away, they burst into laughter again, giddy with adrenaline. Valencia smiles, eyes shining like stars, and holds out her hand for Rebecca to take as they begin the walk back to their homes.

Holding on, Rebecca memorizes the moment: streetlamp glow pooling on the asphalt, the stars she can count (14), wind shuffling the palm leaves, a distant siren (oh shit, is that for us?), the inky blue night, the warmth of Valencia's hand in hers. This moment that, however imperfect, is perfect all the same.


	4. friends and enemies

After her client is left at the altar, Doctor Noelle Akopian doesn't have an easy job.

Okay — to be fair, it's not like she had an easy job before. Noelle has never laboured under the misconception that her profession would be easy.

Through two decades of clinical practice, she's learned all about the importance of setting boundaries, maintaining a professional distance, accepting that it is not her job to solve her clients' problems but to provide them with the tools to improve their own lives. Above all, if she wants to avoid burnout, she must not let herself be pulled into the cyclone of emotions in some clients' more turbulent lives. She has to let them make their own decisions, learn from their own mistakes if need be. And although she can offer advice and emotional support, it's not her place to judge.

Still, some cases make this more difficult than others. Sometimes, it takes every ounce of Noelle's willpower not to blurt out, "Can't you see the denial you're in?!"

Case in point: Rebecca Bunch.

The first few weeks after the wedding was supposed to take place, Rebecca is alternately grandiose and despondent. She takes her place in the seat across from Noelle, bouncy and animated as she talks in rambling, frenzied sentences about her successes at work and how much better off she is without Josh Chan, "that lying liar who lies, who said he would be with me forever and then cheated on me with God" (she waggles her fingers in sarcastic mysticism at the last word).

But other days — or even during the same appointment — Rebecca sits in haze of misery, answering Noelle in monosyllables, her eyes red and puffy, folded into herself like she's trying to disappear.

Noelle gets the story in bits and pieces. Rebecca kissing Nathanial, paying to move up the wedding, her father and then Josh's betrayal. Sometimes Rebecca doesn't want to tell the story. Other times she can't stop talking, roiling with rage or guilt, blaming Josh or herself or the world. She criticizes Josh viciously, but she's no kinder towards herself: "If only I hadn't been so stupid," "so crazy," "if only I'd planned it better, everything would have worked out."

"Would you have been happier if it had worked out?" Noelle asks her on two separate instances.

"Well duh!" says Rebecca the first time, wild-eyed and shaking with vehemence. Her arms whirl in wide, furious gestures, and she looks like she's about twenty seconds away from flailing into Noelle's favourite lamp and/or storming out of the office to find another (likely illegal, definitely self-destructive) coping mechanism to add to her repertoire. And while Noelle wants her client to "fully feel her feelings," this takes a backseat to keeping Rebecca out of jail (and preserving her lighting fixtures). So she changes the topic back to Rebecca's work.

The second time, Rebecca is more melancholy than angry. She sits with her shoulders slumped, head down, her whole being crumpled inward. "I should have seen the signs," she says quietly. "I should have been there for him, done more to make him love me. If I'd just tried harder... I should have been able to do this."

"Would you have been happier if you had?" Noelle asks once again, keeping her voice gentle.

Rebecca takes a moment to answer. When she does, the doctor has to lean forward to hear her. "I don't know. But I know I'm not happy now. I don't... I don't know who I am without him."

This time, Noelle knows she's telling the truth.

Rebecca has always had trouble holding onto a sense of who she is. She mimics movie characters, tries on personalities like outfits, changes like the weather of a much less temperate zone than West Covina. And the hardest part is that these identities aren't as simple as lying — Rebecca commits to the role, shapes her life around it.

All the roles Rebecca took on weren't so much about deception as they were about trying to find a sense of identity and belonging. She wanted to be loved. And in exchange for that love, she was willing to become anything, anyone. All the identities she'd taken on to please Josh, Robert, her friends, her family... they weren't a cover-up to hide her true sense of who she knews herself to be. They were the only way she knew how to be.

It's her pattern. Find what others want, and become that. Be loved at any cost.

She's been practicing for this all her life.

And yet, it doesn't work.

Despite her walk-in wardrobe of identities, the same traits emerge in Rebecca — her intensity, intelligence, off-beat sense of humour, enthusiasm, desire for meaningful connection. Not to mention her moodiness, insecurity, and self-loathing. Despite Rebecca's best efforts, all of her best and worst qualities eventually resurface. But rather than face herself, Rebecca simply finds another new identity to take refuge in.

But at the same time her personality is too strong to ever be fully erased. She swings between contradictory extremes, seeing the best in everyone, herself included, or the absolute worst. She's Mother Theresa Luther King (Noelle didn't ask what exactly that meant, but she got the gist) or a Disney villain. She makes her friends, partners, or even acquaintances the center of her universe, then changes her mind and forgets about them entirely. It's exhausting for everyone around her. And it's exhausting for Rebecca, too.

In her appointments after Josh's departure, Rebecca's many facets shine through. She is strong and capable and furious and hopeful and childish and vengeful and generous and reckless and ambitious and self-obsessed and self-destructive.

In short, she's the same as always. Only more so.

Noelle keeps a close eye on her. Even in Rebecca's confident moments, there's a fragility — her issues run deep. And even if Rebecca doesn't realize it herself, there's a pattern to them.

On the one hand, she isn't having panic attacks and drinking pen-vodka during office hours. Nor are she and Paula running off to commit various felonies (if it weren't for patient confidentiality, Noelle would have filed some serious complaints about this law firm's management style).

But that's not enough to prove she's doing well. In fact, Rebecca seems to have resorted to the workaholic lifestyle she'd lived before coming to West Covina. The very one that left her sleepless and miserable, medicated halfway to oblivion, and desperate enough to move across the country for a man she barely knew.

A few weeks ago, Rebecca's records had finally arrived. As Noelle read over doctors' notes and court reports, she'd been shaken. But not surprised.

She knows Rebecca. And she knows men like Robert. Despite his feigned naiveté, Noelle is willing to bet that he was drawn to Rebecca not despite but because of her instability. He wanted a fantasy — an ingénue, a femme fatale, a manic pixie dream girl. And Rebecca, who viewed her life as a movie, was always willing to play a role.

Especially if love was the prize for a good performance.

But, performance though it may have been, it wasn't a fantasy to her. She wasn't pretending to be impulsive, obsessive, to care about him above all else. When he said he would marry her, she believed it. Of course she believed it. She had been practicing all her life for a role like this. She was willing to give up all she had, and all she was, to be with him.

To him it was a fantasy. But to her it was a promise.

As time went on, Robert must have realized the stakes of the game he was playing. Being the center of her universe started to feel less like a power trip and more like responsibility — which is exactly what he'd gotten into this arrangement to avoid. Rebecca's disregard for consequences started to look less like a fun quirk and more like overt self-endangerment. Her intensity, once exhilarating, didn't turn off when it became embarrassing, or inconvenient, or even frightening. Her insecurities, her painful memories, her need for genuine closeness — all the messy humanity spilled out of her.

And he had never wanted something real.

Better to get out while he could. Tell his friends she's unstable. He knew no one would listen to her side of the story, anyway. He was a respected member of the community.

And she was the crazy ex-girlfriend. Or at least, that's how other people would see it.

In the end, he didn't have to do very much at all to discredit her. Rebecca's own impulsivity took care of that. Because once he was gone, she didn't care how reckless she was. Without him, she didn't care what happened to her.

Rebecca had shaped her entire personality to please him. She had erased herself for this man. When he left, she was left with nothing.

Or at least, that's how she saw it.

Shortly after the breakup with Robert, Rebecca had attempted suicide. She phoned up family members in a panic, and Naomi had coached her to go to the ER, rushed down to be with her.

It was a complicated love; Naomi hated to see her daughter in pain. But her way of dealing with that was to deny that there was pain at all. The records indicate how Naomi had talked about her: "dramatic," "young love," "theatrical." Naomi sat at her side for hours, and when the doctors came, both Rebecca and her mother assured them it had all been a misunderstanding. Bad breakup. You know how it is. She's fine to go home. Yes, I'm fine.

Rebecca was released early the next morning and attended class as usual.

Then she tried to burn down Robert's house.

A less wealthy woman would have become another casualty of the legal system. But Rebecca had her mother's team of lawyers on her side, and so was lucky enough to have her problems identified as mental illness. But that's about where her luck ended.

The legal and medical documents frame Rebecca's treatment as a success. Noelle's fury mounts as she reads them, seeing the medication dosages rise despite little evidence they are working, that they are even the right prescriptions for Rebecca's emotional dysregulation. Overmedicated to the point of numbness, yes, Rebecca became less reactive. But she didn't become any happier.

Released from the hospital, Rebecca went to law school with no therapeutic follow-up — Naomi took over, spoke for her, saying she didn't need it. And as complicated as her relationship with her mother was, Rebecca clung to that denial.

Rebecca remained at the top of her classes, pleasing her mother and the judge — but not necessarily indicating recovery. Exhausting herself to live up to her mother's dream wasn't personal growth but a kind of resignation. Once again, she tried to convince herself that, if another person valued her — even a person she couldn't stand — she was worthy of existing. That if she could just be perfect, she could avoid abandonment. Because, as domineering and hurtful as her mother could be, her company was still less frightening than the prospect of being entirely alone.

But even as Rebecca rose to Naomi Bunch's impossible standards of success, the sense of emptiness persisted. She got top grades, but her internal life was in disarray. Loneliness was constant; she was frantic and numb, unable to sleep, afraid of her own thoughts. The rare times she saw her doctor, she continued to report thoughts of suicide. Her doctors continued to increase the same ineffective drugs, and her mother continued to brush off Rebecca's erraticism as attention seeking.

So Rebecca brushed it off too. It was easier to push it from her mind than to accept that she felt trapped in a life she didn't want. A life she wasn't able to tolerate. And that, in order to change it, she would have to alter the way she had always understood herself.

Rebecca has never seen herself as real. And in Noelle's professional opinion, if Rebecca is to get better she'll have to confront that life isn't a music video, or a movie, or a test to be failed or passed. To learn that a personality isn't a costume to be changed with each new relationship. To learn that no matter how hard she tries, there's no guaranteed method to keep others from leaving her. To learn that she's not a heroine in a movie, nor do others exist to be her supporting characters, and that there's nothing so simple as a happy ending.

Though a film may end with a kiss or a wedding, real people don't get happy-ever-after — they get the rest of their lives, with all their daily pains and victories and love and pettiness. And they try, despite their human imperfections, to be good to each other. And they keep trying. Because that's all anyone can do.

No matter what happens, Rebecca will always have herself. And if she is to make a life she wants to live, she will need to find a way to see that as reassuring rather than terrifying.

When Rebecca finally does face herself, Noelle isn't sure whether it will stir her to work towards self-acceptance, or activate her to self-destruct in earnest. But whatever happens, it will change her.

"Angry."

Rebecca sits across from Doctor Akopian, tapping her Manolo Blahnik against the hardwood and trying not to pick off the sky-blue nail polish that Heather had done for her the night before. She feels like there's a motor inside her, humming through her limbs with the urge to move, to fidget, to run away. At this point, even using her old treadmill for its intended, non-hot-dog-related-purpose is beginning to sound appealing.

But she's not at work, and even if she were, that's no longer her office to go back to. That time in her life is over; now she's here. Now she's officially Rebecca Bunch, Woman Left at the Altar. Rebecca Bunch, Psychiatric Patient. Rebecca Bunch, Not Good Enough.

But she will be.

Feeling a prickling in her hands, she looks down to see that her sky-blue nails have been digging into her palms. She unclenches her fists, flips her hair, and tries to shake herself out into Rebecca Bunch, Successful Lawyer.

Doctor Akopian meets her gaze and waits for her to say something.

"I felt devastated," Rebecca articulates. "I mean, I don't even know why you're asking that, no one's ever been elated about being dumped, especially not at their wedding —" Slow down, she tells herself. Her voice is getting fast, and she doesn't want Akopian to get the wrong idea. No, she wants Doctor A to understand that she's being really, truly rational about this.

She takes a deep breath. "But. I have since let go of all negativity, and am moving forward with proaction and self-care. Henceforth —"

(Unnoticed by Rebecca, Noelle flinches. Nothing self-aware has ever begun with "henceforth.")

"— I have sworn to let no man ever make me feel that way again."

"And which way is that?"

"Furious," she restates. But that's not quite right. There's a power in fury. "And worthless. I felt stupid, and alone, and abandoned, and..." She takes a jagged breath. Wiping her eyes, she's embarrassed by the moisture that comes away on her hands. "Whatever. It won't happen again." Successful Lawyer Mode.

"It will, though," says Doctor Akopian. Rebecca gapes at her. "Not necessarily to the same extent, but you are going to be hurt again. Rejection is an inevitable part of life — not everyone is going to like you. That's why it's important to build a sense of self-worth that isn't entirely dependent on outside validation."

Rebecca scoffs. "Okay, you know what, I'm sorry, but I've been through this — I've seen a lot of counsellors in my life. I know it, the whole 'be your own best friend' thing."

"I'm not saying you have to be your own best friend. Simply to treat yourself with the same worth as any other person — as someone who deserves to have her needs met, to be okay, to be happy even, simply because you're human."

Rebecca is quiet for a moment.

"What are you thinking?" says Doctor Akopian.

"Nothing, it's just... it sounds too easy. To just be unconditionally nice to myself."

"Oh, it's not. Believe me. But it's worth it."

Rebecca looks out the window, the perfect jade green lawn darkening in the perfect royal blue of the approaching autumn evening. Everything in Doctor Akopian's life looks so clear, so calm. I could be happy in a place like this, Rebecca finds herself thinking, even as she knows it's not true. She remembers herself, thrashing on that grass after breaking in, that time Doctor Akopian caught her. It's how she always, or almost always, feels; like she's the one imperfect thing in the scene.

Of course Rebecca wants to change. Of course she doesn't want this cyclone inside her to keep spinning, tearing her up and wreaking havoc for everyone around her. Who would want that? She wouldn't be like this if she knew how not to be like this. No one would.

Why don't doctors understand that? She isn't doing this on purpose.

She wants to get better. She wants the perfect calm, the happy life, the love that doesn't run out. But something inside her can't stay still. Can't shake the feeling that, no matter where she goes, she doesn't quite belong.

Maybe constantly trying to be great! and perfect! and amazing! isn't healthy. But it's less frightening than thinking that, no matter what she does, she'll always be stuck feeling this way.

Someone is talking, and Rebecca startles to realize the voice is her own. "You know, when I was in high school, my anxiety started to get really bad — it was like this fist around my heart, gripping it. And then I realized, you know what? This doesn't matter. No matter how shitty I felt, I was able to get my work done. I could keep it to myself, so really, what difference did it make? Like, hey, maybe everyone else feels like this too, but they're just better than at dealing with it, so it would be stupid to draw attention to my own inadequacy.

"And then I met Josh, and... he was the first person to act like it mattered what I felt. Who actually wanted to spend time with me, and listen to me. I know I shared a lot with him really quickly. But... I'd never been able to talk to anyone like that before. I didn't know I could.

"And then he was gone. Now he's gone. And... shouldn't I be able to go back to just not caring? I mean," she laughs, "I got through Harvard by pushing through these feelings, so why can't I do it now?"

Doctor Akopian leans forward. "Well, what do you think is different in your life since then?"

"I dunno. Moving here. And," she shrugs, trying to look casual, "my friends."

"They really do care about you."

"Yeah. They do." Rebecca hesitates. "They don't know everything, though."

"You mean about Robert?"

Suddenly, Rebecca realizes she can't breathe. She stares at Akopian, unsure whether to feel betrayed or angry or afraid, unable to feel anything except the crush of asphyxiation.

"You know about that?" She dislodges the words from her throat like pebbles.

Akopian nods. "I read your file," she says, voice calm as ever.

"Shit," Rebecca exhales. She presses her palms to her eyes, then takes them away, blinking as though suddenly waking up. "Okay. I am sorry you had to see that, but it is not an accurate representation of who I am as a person. I was young, and I thought I was in love, and I was, like, really weird and dramatic —"

"You were in pain," says Doctor Akopian.

Rebecca goes silent. "Yeah," she says after a moment. She lets out a bitter laugh. "No one's ever acknowledged that before."

"That must have been hard."

"Yeah."

For a second, Rebecca debates whether to tell her. She chances it. "I'm still in pain," she says. "I mean, I keep trying to do the right thing — to drink smoothies, and do my job, and listen to feminist gym playlists and yadda yadda yadda. But no matter what I do, there's this fear that everything will fall apart. And I think, why bother doing anything if it's futile anyway? I'm just going to crumble in the end, and everyone will see I should never have tried at all."

"A sort of imposter syndrome?"

"Yeah. But... about being a person."

"Well, the good news is, I can certainly confirm that you're a person. But the more difficult fact is, it's not my opinion about that matters."

Rebecca quirks half her mouth in an expression of bemusement.

"Your opinion matters," Akopian clarifies. "If you're able to validate your own experiences, other people's judgments won't hold so much power over you."

"I don't know," says Rebecca. "I mean, I get what you're saying. That would be nice. But it's not that easy."

"Again, not easy. But worthwhile."

"When I was a kid, my mom taught me this trick. She's a paralegal — she always said that if it hadn't been for my dad, she would have been a full-fledged lawyer, that she didn't want me to make the same mistake. She had this mantra — 'Good enough is never enough.'"

Doctor Akopian looks at her, and Rebecca laughs. "I know: yikes. But still... she was good at what she did. I never got along with her, but I always respected how hard she worked.

"In high school, when my anxiety started getting really bad, she sat me down and said, 'Rebecca, I'm going to let you in on a secret. If you really want to succeed, you need to look at all the work you do and imagine it was done by your worst enemy. Pinpoint the flaws, tear them to pieces, until there's nothing you could possibly criticize. Then you'll know it's good.' It was the only time she really talked to me, instead of just bossing me around. So I tried it and..." She throws up her hands. "It worked. Any flaws in my paper? God, what idiot wrote this. Second highest score at mock trials? Look at that loser who couldn't get first. And I just kept doing that, and it got me into Yale, and Harvard, and the firm. It got me everything anyone could possibly want."

"Was it what you wanted?"

"It's never really mattered what I wanted. Like, the one time I tried..." She trails off. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"That's my job."

Rebecca takes a breath. "I'm worried that even if things had worked out with Josh, I'd still feel like this. This... torn-up emptiness inside." She meets her therapist's eyes. "Does the pain ever stop?"

"No feeling is permanent."

"Thank God."

"Though that means no positive feeling is permanent, either. A lot of people believe that if they're happy in one moment then they'll never have problems again."

"Oh, pshaw, who would believe that?" says Rebecca.

Akopian looks at her. "You'd be surprised," she says evenly.

On the table next to her, Rebecca draws lines in the zen garden, sketches a curly-haired stick figure self portrait. She draws more squiggles, crosses herself out.

After a moment, Doctor Akopian speaks. "There's no way of completely avoiding pain. But it doesn't have to negate your positive emotions, either. You can find what matters to you, notice those moments when you're happy, and hold onto those. What's something good in your life right now?"

Immediately her mind goes to that night with Valencia, climbing the pretzel, that calm and then the shock of running, together. Warmth spreads through her chest. "Hanging out with Valencia," she says, carefully omitting the destruction-of-property aspect.

"Great. So there's your homework — spend some time with someone who matters to you, and write down how you feel about it."

"That's it? Just hang out?"

"That's it. Try to have some fun — doctor's orders." She pencils Rebecca's next appointment into her calendar. "I'd also like you to check out this group." She hands Rebecca a business card. "They specialize in dialectical behavioral therapy."

"In what-what?"

"Dialectical behavioral therapy. They focus on emotional regulation, mindfulness, interpersonal effectiveness — skills that are useful for everyone, but which I think will particularly benefit you."

Rebecca takes the card, eyeing it as though it might bite her. "I don't know if I have time for this. It seems pretty hardcore."

"Well, you've said your mood swings can be an issue. And that you can be somewhat obsessive."

"Some might say that's part of my charm."

"Please at least go once to check it out. If you don't like the group, we can talk next time and come up with another plan."

Rebecca sighs. "Okay. Fine."

The doctor smiles. "Thank you. Now, was there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

Rebecca thinks of that cliff. How she'd stood, abandonment collapsing her into nothing but pain and the need to make it stop by any means necessary. Feeling it leak out of her: her intensity, her "drama," her "craziness," her not-good-enough-ness. Her self. She felt herself poisoning everything around her, seeing the worried expressions on her friends' faces, knowing it was all her fault.

They'd seen her now. The parts of her that she'd spent her whole life trying to obliterate. "Dramatic," "attention-seeking," "crazy." The thoughts echoed so loudly she felt as though her head would break in half. All the things she'd been called over the years by the people who really saw her, who realized she was too needy, too much, fundamentally fucked up.

She could escape New York, but never herself. Wherever she went, her personality followed her.

Paula, Heather, Darryl, Valencia... now everyone saw who she was. And now they would run.

And yet, as she stood on the cliffside, no one turned away.

Paula had taken her hand. And Valencia drove her home. Even after all that, her friends had been there for her. They still were.

They really do care about you.

In a way, that's harder to accept than all the self-loathing thoughts. Those are familiar. Being genuinely liked for who she is... Rebecca doesn't know how to deal with that. It sounds too good to risk hoping for. Too much to risk losing.

She takes a deep breath, presses her shoes hard against the floor of Doctor Akopian's office. Grounding techniques. She looks down at her nails and realized she's chipped off most of the paint, glitter littering her lap.

"Alright?" asks Doctor Akopian.

"Yeah. Not great, but... safe. You're right, I do have good people in my life. There is love in my life, Josh or no Josh. Things just hurt right now."

"I'd be worried if they didn't. The pain means you're processing."

"Thanks. Do you think I need to tell my friends everything? I mean, about Robert?"

"That's up to you. You certainly have a right to your privacy — though you may be surprised that people are more understanding than you expect. You've already been through a lot together, and they've supported you throughout."

"You're gonna tell me that if someone really loves me, they'll accept me for myself, right?"

"I'd go a step further and say they already do."

After therapy, Rebecca steps into her car and stares out the windshield, the note of referral to the DBT clinic clenched in her palm.

Doctor A always takes everything so seriously. It's exhausting.

Slowly, Rebecca exhales a breath she didn't know she had been holding.

Okay. This is real life.

Now what happens?

She checks her cell phone, sees that Valencia has sent a snapchat. In the video, V grins as the camera, shifts the screen to the neon sign of the very exclusive sushi place, then back to her face. Three days, she mouths, making a clinking motion with an imaginary glass, then blowing a kiss.

Rebecca smiles watching the video, brushing away the moisture that has once again mysteriously appeared in her eyes.

Yeah. She does have pretty awesome friends.

Before she can second-guess herself, Rebecca clicks the icon to dial Valencia's number.

"Hello?"

"Hey," says Rebecca, "I was wondering if you mayhaps —" (her nervousness, for some reason, prompts an old-timey accent. She catches herself before a m'lady slips out) "want to hang tonight? Like, we could watch Hocus Pocus or whatevs."

"Hocus Pocus in September?"

"Sure! Isn't it always a good time for a cult classic comedy-horror-fantasy film featuring the dramaturgic flair of Bette Midler?"

"Oh, uh, okay. Sure, sounds good. I'll come by at seven?"

"Great! We shall partake in cinéma, rosé, and an exquisite salád experiénce." Rebecca, what are you doing? Stop saying words. That's not even French, or... any language.

"Cool," says Valencia. "See you then."

"Ciao."

"Oh, and Rebecca?" Valencia pauses. "Just... I can't believe I'm saying this, but it doesn't have to be a big thing, okay? It's been a long day, we can just, you know. Chill."

"And chill it shall be."

After hanging up, Rebecca rests her head against the steering wheel, feeling her heart pound.

Then she reaches for her phone once again, opens the internet browser and into the search engine types greatest salad ever.

Rebecca Nora Bunch has never done anything half-assed. And though she may not know much else about herself, at least she's always had that.


	5. oh my god, I think I like you

**A/N: **Big apologies, I realized I posted the wrong chapter last time (this is chapter 5, and it was posted as chapter 4). It is now fixed and the real chapter 4 is up. Sorry for the confusion!

**x  
**

"Fuck," gasps Valencia as she shifts out of balance. A muscle spasm stabs through the hand she's been using to hold herself in the air, and for a split-second she is weightless, waiting for the fall — and then she hits the mat with a smack.

"Ow." Rubbing her elbow, she props herself into a sitting position, nerves still tingling where she landed on her side. She closes her eyes and tries to regain her composure, resolves to take a breather before going back into wounded peacock position (a name that feels particularly apt right now). Stretching out her arms and legs, she takes a deep breath, straightens her spine, and thanks God she isn't livestreaming this session.

What is she going to do about Rebecca?

And what is she going to do with _herself?_

She opens her eyes and forces a smile — smiling releases endorphins! Science says that, and the health gurus say that, and she herself says that to her not inconsiderable number of Instagram followers (not that she does it for the follower count, of course). She concentrates on her smile, on her posture. Pulling back the strands of hair that escaped her ponytail, she smiles, smiles, smiles. This is what happy looks like. She is going to radiate tranquillity if it kills her.

She reaches for her phone, turns on the camera to face her. Staring back at her is a woman with a nervous glint in her eyes and a grin more crazed than serene.

With a groan, Valencia drops the smile and tosses the phone aside. "Fuck," she says again, indulgently, since no one is watching. Cursing is off-brand. Groaning is off-brand. But her brand no longer feels as important as it once did.

A year ago, she knew who she was. Or at least, she thought she did. Yes, her relationship with Josh wasn't exactly satisfying, but after fifteen years together that was normal, right? To wonder if there could have been more to your relationship, to your life? And in between the stretches of monotony, there would be those sweet moments when she remembered why she loved him: when he drove to the all-night grocery store at three a.m. to buy her a mango and her favourite bottled water; when they were talking and he'd pause and look at her as though suddenly really_ seeing_ her and his eyes lit up; when she complained about lack of enrolment in her class and he showed up the next day, struggling through the poses but grinning whenever he got it right, no idea what he was doing but really, really trying.

Those moments got farther apart year by year, but she held on to them, close to her heart:_ this is why I'm doing this._ And yes, she flinched when he touched her, but she just wasn't the cuddly type. Wasn't he the best she could ask for? Josh was handsome, and popular, and he had a great body, and... okay, fine, she cared about the loser, he was a good guy, okay?

But sometimes, horribly, she found herself wishing he wasn't. Wished he didn't make her feel so guilty for wanting more, though she couldn't put her finger on what exactly "more" meant. Was she really the demanding bitch Josh's friends thought she was? Was she impossible to please? She'd shaken off the thoughts and her restlessness with cardio, crunches, dancing and snapchats and rare furtive carb-binges necessitating even more cardio. If her life didn't feel satisfying, she just needed to work harder. Right?

She was Valencia Perez: West Covina's best yoga teacher, Instagram legend, alpha girl, doesn't-do-humour girlfriend of Josh Chan. Prom queen to his king. She was a picture of success. She was happy.

In theory.

And then Rebecca changed everything.

Since high school, Valencia had devoted her life to maintaining the perfect body, the perfect relationship, the perfect internet presence. She'd worked her ass off to get where she was. But sometimes, she couldn't help but wonder if she even wanted to be there.

It wasn't, like, constant misery. But the nights got long, and Josh would be out with his friends — which was fine, she didn't really get along with them anyway — and she'd lay in bed alone, Vampire Weekend's soft, wistful songs playing through her earbuds, and she couldn't help but ask herself:_ is this all there is?_ She'd lay on her side and watch shadows climb the wall, listening to Ezra Koenig croon about longing for something he never quite put into words.

And then Rebecca hurricaned into town and threw out all the rules. She became Valencia's first female friend since high school — maybe Valencia's first real friend, period. Rebecca wanted to get to know her, wanted to hear what she had to say, wanted to spend time with her. Valencia had never thought of herself as interesting. Hardworking, yes, Attractive, sure. But never interesting.

Rebecca made her feel like she could be someone more. Someone who made jokes, who had friends, who didn't view every other woman as a rival. Someone who went out to dance because it was fun, not because she had to prove, constantly, that she was cool enough, fit enough, desirable enough, good enough. Someone who could be happy. Someone who could just _be_.

Rebecca made Valencia wonder if maybe — just maybe — she wasn't selfish to want something more than the life she'd been living. Or at least, something different.

She'd dedicated the last fifteen years to controlling herself: smiling through her frustration, ignoring her hunger pangs, dismissing Josh's increasing distance with cutting remarks rather than letting him see her cry. Rebecca, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms about being too much. Rebecca was too talkative, too emotional, too needy, too nerdy, too sexual — and people liked her anyway. And Valencia, despite herself, liked her too. For all Rebecca's mood swings, her impulsiveness, her deception (both self and otherwise), there was something genuine about her. When Rebecca loved something, whether it was a person or a feminist Twitter account or _Harry Potter,_ she didn't hide it. She put herself into the world, tried with everything she had to connect to others. And yeah, it was messy. But it was real. She was one of the most vibrantly alive people Valencia had ever met.

Valencia had spent her life trying to feel less, to want less, to need less, telling herself she preferred to be left alone and sometimes almost believing that. It felt like if she were to acknowledge her need, it would swallow her with its enormity.

At first, she had wanted to hate Rebecca — so shameless in her neediness, so full in her emotions, getting a free pass for all her too-muchness while Valencia garnered nothing but resentment for all her efforts to stick to the rules. And then she realized it wasn't Rebecca she was angry with.

Valencia had spent fifteen years in a relationship that wasn't working. Maybe she didn't know what she wanted. But it wasn't this.

Throwing out her lifeplan, her rulebook, fifteen years' worth of #goals... it was terrifying. But not as much so as continuing on the path she was on, paring herself down to nothing, pouring her soul into a life that was almost-but-never-quite-good-enough. Always wondering what could have been.

She would live up to the name she had given herself. She would be brave.

And so, messy as it was, she called it off with Josh. Even as she knew, in losing him, she would also lose her certainty in who she was. Or maybe, since meeting Rebecca, she'd already lost that.

She wanted something more. And knowing Rebecca, she'd begun to realize that was possible.

She was tired of being perfect.

Completing her stretches, she reminds herself: _I did this for a reason._ She had wanted this, this opportunity to realize who she was and what she wanted.

So why is she so afraid of her feelings for Rebecca?

Valencia progresses through some simple poses, no longer able to stay still. Okay, so she likes Rebecca. Big deal. She's had crushes on women before — who hasn't? But even thinking Rebecca's name, those wide blue eyes and that unselfconscious smile the night on the pretzel fills her mind, that feeling of Rebecca's hand in hers, her skin awakening wherever Rebecca touched her —

Valencia's heart quickens. Yes, she likes the attention from Rebecca, the way Rebecca makes her feel like she can be her best self, but she also likes… Rebecca. The time they spend together, talking about nothing in particular, yet feeling understood. Seeing her happy. The more time they spend together, the harder it is for Valencia to say goodbye, to go home alone, her blood still humming wherever Rebecca touched her. Rebecca is a touchy person: kissing her cheek, embracing her, holding her hand. And unlike with Josh, when Rebecca touches her, Valencia never flinches.

What she feels for Rebecca... it feels real. That kind of breath-catching, heart-racing, world-brightening closeness she's always longed for. And maybe that's infatuation, but it doesn't change the fact that she genuinely enjoys Rebecca's company, talking and laughing and even being in silence with her. It isn't like what she had with Josh — it's totally off-plan, off-brand, confusing and unscripted and fills her with a kind of anxiety she's never had to deal with before.

And a kind of hope. That's even harder — the thought of how good things could be. Valencia finds herself daydreaming about kissing her, Rebecca's soft lips pressed to hers and parting as Valencia draws her close. But what really makes her heart catch in her throat is when she imagines their life together: how it would feel to wake up beside Rebecca, to make breakfast together, and the next night fall asleep in her arms again. Valencia Maria Perez is head over heels. And she has no clue how to handle that.

Especially since she doesn't know if Rebecca feels the same.

Perfectionism has always been Valencia's shield against shame and uncertainty. But she doesn't know how to be perfect in this situation, and while she isn't ashamed of her feelings, they're more vulnerable than anything she's felt in a long time. The raw love — _like_, she corrects herself — that she feels for Rebecca is more than she knows how to handle. But she wanted something real, and this… well, she doesn't know if she's ever felt anything realer.

With Josh she had curated the relationship, like a livestream, like an event, like — yes, even Rebecca's wedding. Presentation overtook substance. But with Rebecca, she doesn't need to be flawless and aloof and constantly on. Rebecca wants to know the real her, whoever that is. And Valencia wants to know the real Rebecca, too.

Rebecca has undeniably changed her life. Telling her how she feels might turn out better than anything Valencia could have planned.

Or it might be a disaster.

She tightens her muscles, props herself up into destroyer of the universe pose and tries to hold still.

A half-minute in, her phone rings and she races to answer it, a swell of excitement in her chest. Rebecca's the only one who ever calls her.

Sure enough, Rebecca's voice rings through the cell, inviting Valencia over for _Hocus Pocus_ and dinner.

"Sure, sounds good," says Valencia, keeping her voice steady. On the other end, Rebecca sounds flustered — but Rebecca is so constantly flustered Valencia can't actually tell if it means anything.

Is it a real date? A cute friend date? Rebecca tends to go overboard, but this time, more than Instagrammed perfection or pretzel-criminality or dance-club glitz, Valencia wants something quiet. To just appreciate Rebecca's company. To try to gauge what her friend feels, and whether to tell her what she's feeling herself. To be with someone she cares about as they both try to figure out their next steps.

The two say goodbye, and as Valencia hangs up, she catches sight of herself in the reflection of her phone screen. The same nervous eyes as before. But this time, the smile is genuine.

Ninety minutes to get ready. She leans back into savasana, the final pose of her routine. Lying flat on the mat, she tries to release the tension in her muscles, to soften her back and sink down, down, down.

All she has to do is be still with her own thoughts.

It's always been the hardest pose for her.

**x**

As Rebecca enters her apartment, she finds Heather at the table, seated in front of her laptop with a bottle of desert wine on the chair beside her. The wine is wearing a stylish scarf and a pair of sunglasses. Rebecca doesn't ask questions.

As Rebecca unloads armloads of groceries, Heather explains, "I got so bored I answered all my fan mail and ran out of Miss Douche social media to manage. So now I'm managing social media for this wine I found in the shower. I think I could really make a career of this."

Rebecca glances at the screen. "You made a Facebook page for Abandoned Dessert Wine?"

Heather pats the bottle. "She already has twelve friends. Oh, thirteen now."

"Well, I'm glad one of us is having a productive day."

Heather eyes the mountains of vegetables Rebecca is piling around the kitchen, a verdant jungle accumulating over every surface.

"So what did you do? Also, what are you doing?"

"Oh, I promised V I'd make her the world's greatest salad, but according to the internet all the 'world's greatest salad's consist primarily of bacon and cheese, so I bought every ingredient I know she likes and now I'm improvising."

"So now we have, like, twenty kinds of lettuce."

"And chard, rappini, borage, chevril, arugala, endives, kai-lan, and amaranth."

"I'm ninety percent sure you made some of those up."

Rebecca races around the kitchen, dices a pile of parsley and tomatoes, puts something on to boil and something else in the oven. One of those elevated moods Heather used to document for her psych class (those moods can be nice, now that Heather lives with her; Rebecca cleans everything. Though she also goes online shopping and fills up the house with boxes, so it's kind of fifty-fifty).

"How was therapy?" says Heather.

"Good," says Rebecca, too quickly, adding another tray and adjusting the temperature.

"You know, you haven't really been, like, around much lately," says Heather.

"Yeah, ya know, work is hectic, and I've been spending a lot of time with V."

"I noticed." The two have been getting closer, and on one hand that's fine — Heather isn't exactly wildly social, but she likes them both. If they want to go out on escapades and then tell her about it after, that's cool. Besides, she's enjoying the quiet time she now has to chat on the phone with Hector, that cute friend of Josh's.

But she gets the inkling there's something going on between Rebecca and Valencia, and while she's happy for them, she kind of wonders — and worries — what a relationship would look like between two of the most intense people she knows. They're good people, but they both have their issues, and she doesn't want either — or both — of her best friends to get hurt.

_I'm here for you,_ she wants to say, watching Rebecca flutter over pots and pans. But she knows Rebecca is tired of hearing that from everyone. She'll have to use her rich vocal range and dazzling sense of humour instead. "So you have no underlying issues to address, and now you're baking Valencia an insane salad," she says flatly.

"You know I don't like that word, but yes."

"Okay. Well, I'll be in my room Instagramming this bottle in different outfits." She gazes at Abandoned Desert Wine. "I think she'd look good with an eyebrow piercing, don't you?"

"Totally," says Rebecca, definitely not listening — the Rebecca she knows would never let that slide without asking which part of the wine constituted an eyebrow. Also, she'd probably want the last sip.

"Have a good night. And uh, if you want to talk about anything" — Heather gestures vaguely at the wall — "I live here."

"Oh. Um, thanks." Rebecca smiles confusedly, salutes her, then looks even more confused by her own reaction.

Okay then. Now that they're both feeling equally awkward, Heather retreats to her room, laptop pinging as Ms. Wine receives another friend request.

**x**

An hour later, the doorbell rings as Rebecca is setting down the final bowl in a garden of rainbow salads. She races to the door and ushers Valencia into her home.

"Hey." V smiles, a bouquet in her arms, and leans in to kiss Rebecca on the cheek.

"Ooh, what are these?" says Rebecca after returning the kiss. She examines the flowers, vibrant petals in purple and pink.

"Well, the lavender is calming, and the white chrysanthemum is for happiness, and this —" she points to a plant with sunset-coloured petals — "is protea. For change and transformation. Figured we could all use some good luck."

"I feel pretty lucky right now," says Rebecca, as she goes to set the flowers in water.

"You made all this?" says Valencia, following her into the kitchen, taking in the array of fruits, vegetables, and multicoloured leaves. Slices of starfruit and strawberry, scents of honey and roasted almonds, a pitcher of iced tea with fresh lemons.

"Yeah, you know, I wanted to do something nice for you. You've really been here for me lately. And it was fun, thinking of things you would like."

"Well, clearly you know me. This is beautiful."

As they fill their plates, Rebecca pours them both a glass of the lemon-jasmine tea Valencia likes. She'd debated picking up some rosé to take the edge off — _why am I so nervous around her lately?_ — but decided that, tonight, she'd rather be fully attentive to their time together.

"You know," says Valencia once they're seated, using her fork and knife to cut a mango, "I've been thinking about doing more party planning. It's cool, having this scene in your head, and making it a reality."

"You should. You'd be really good at that."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, you're creative, you're detail-oriented, you have incredible taste — you'd do a great job."

Valencia smiles. "Thanks," she says.

"You know, it kind of reminds me of the drama classes I used to take — bringing the scene into reality. I really loved it."

"Why did you stop?"

Rebecca laughs, even though no one's said anything funny. "You know, it wasn't practical — took up a lot of time, I had LSATs, you can't really make a career out of acting—"

"The Rebecca I know does _not_ give up that easily."

"No, but..." She swirls a leaf of spinach around her plate. When she speaks her voice is quiet. "I don't know. When everyone is telling you who you are, who you should be... sometimes it's just easier to listen to them."

More gently, Valencia says, "Everyone in this case meaning your mom?"

"Yeah. I get that she's twisted, but she's persistent." Rebecca gives a short laugh. "I mean, if you think _I'm_ stubborn—"

"I do. It's one of the things I like about you."

"Well, I'm just saying it's not always a fun thing. Not being able to let go. And, regardless of what my mom says, disappointing her isn't something I do on purpose."

"Maybe it should be," says Valencia. When Rebecca's brow furrows, she adds quickly, "I just mean, you say she's always trying to change you. And I like you the way you are. You're a good person."

_You don't know about Robert._

"Thanks," says Rebecca, unable to meet her eyes.

Valencia slides her hand across the table, places it atop Rebecca's. "This is really nice," she says. "Thanks for having me over."

And Rebecca, despite the blossom of anxiety that unfurls in her chest, means in when she says, "I'm glad you came."

They pour more tea and bowls of fruit salad, and soon Valencia is seated on the sofa while Rebecca sets up the movie and then joins her, curling up next to her under the blanket. As _Hocus Pocus_ plays, they interject with laughter and favourite quotes they've memorized, and gradually, Rebecca's anxiety dissipates. She leans her head on Valencia's shoulder and sighs contentedly. Valencia puts her arm around Rebecca's shoulders, and Rebecca leans in, feeling safer than she has in a long time.

When the movie draws to a close, an advertisement comes on for a _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ marathon on the space channel.

Valencia's eyes light up. "Oh my God, I used to watch this everyday after high school."

"Really?"

"Yeah! I really identified with Buffy."

"Really? I would have guessed Cordelia — the cool, popular type."

"Please. I'm a leader. If someone's going to stop the apocalypse, I'm making sure it's done right."

Rebecca grins.

"What? Why is that funny?"

"Nothing, it's just sweet, seeing you get all excited about something. And it's... not what I expected, you watching vampire shows. I assumed you would have been out, like, going to awesome parties every night with all your cool friends."

"No. There was mostly just Josh, and he was always at dance practice. I told you, girls were jealous of me — I spent most nights doing yoga and watching _Buffy_."

"But you were prom queen!"

"Yeah, well, I was popular, but that didn't mean I had a lot of friends."

"Isn't that... exactly what that means?"

"Not exactly." Valencia speaks slowly, running her fingers along the small black jewel on her necklace. "I'm good at keeping up appearances. Like, I did everything right — I had status — but most people would have been glad to see me fall. You don't end up liking humour very much when it's always at your expense."

"V, I'm sorry."

Valencia doesn't reply. Rebecca feels herself rambling, "Kids are the worst. There was this group of popular kids who tormented me, so I used to fantasize about stealing pets from the popular people and then dressing the pets up like the popular people. I even had a song about it."

"What?"

"Nevermind. I just mean —" Rebecca takes a breath, — "It's hard, when people make fun of you. You didn't deserve that."

"It's fine. I mean, it wasn't that bad. Just... you know that feeling when you're trying to do everything right, but still no one really likes you?"

Rebecca can't say she's ever been popular. But she remembers the tightrope of her college experience, that constant need to walk a perfect line, one misstep a recipe for disaster. How, even if it was only in her mind, it felt like there was always a crowd gathered below — her mother saying she wasn't trying hard enough, her classmates who both envied and resented her, Robert and Josh and all the other exes who said she was crazy or weird or dramatic — always watching, always gossiping, always waiting for her to fall. Every moment felt like a struggle between absolute perfection and a shame so deep it might kill her.

"Well, screw them," says Rebecca. "I like you."

"Thanks." Valencia tilts her head, looking at Rebecca. "You know, with you… It's like I don't have to pretend. Like I can be myself, and you're okay with that. It's new." She shrugs, smiles. "It's nice."

"Well, I think your self is pretty damn awesome," says Rebecca, smiling back as she slides her hand into Valencia's. "Look, I don't know if this is true, but my therapist says I sometimes idealize people — that I build up this idea of them in my mind, and then I'm disappointed when I get to know them and they aren't the person I invented. But with you — you're always surprising me, but it's a good thing. The more I learn about you, the more I like you. And I like you a lot."

Valencia lifts her hand and kisses it. "M'lady."

"Hey!" Rebecca groans, jokingly swatting at her, "no making fun of my awkwardness when we first met. I thought we were having a moment."

V grins, "Oh, we were. But I couldn't resist."

"Oh god, that was embarrassing."

"Hey, I thought it was cute. Confusing, but cute. Besides, I didn't have enough girl friends back then to be a hundred percent sure women didn't just do that at the grocery store."

"Well, now you know. I'm a weirdo."

"Yeah, but you're my weirdo."

Rebecca's heart speeds up, her skin growing warm. It's not a bad feeling. "Okay, well, you also have this secret geek side. Vampire slayer."

Valencia looks at Rebecca, the light in her eyes dancing, smiling that special way she does when she's comfortable. "Maybe I do. And I think you like it."

Rebecca looks into those dark, luminous eyes, their deep pools behind the black curves of her eyelashes. She could get lost in those eyes.

_You can find what matters to you, notice those moments when you're happy, and hold onto those._

"What?" says Valencia, with a confused smirk. Rebecca jolts, wonders how long she's been staring.

"Nothing. It's just... I'm trying to memorize this moment, so I can go back to it. I'm just really happy right now."

"Me too," says Valencia quietly. Tentatively, she lifts a hand to Rebecca's cheek, brushes back a strand of her hair. Rebecca moves closer to her, closing her eyes, unsure who initiated it but suddenly knowing what she wants. And then Valencia's lips are on hers, and their hands are tangled in each others hair, pulling closer, their lips parting. Rebecca's nerves light up where Valencia touches her; one hand at the back of her head, the other tracing the curve of Rebecca's spine.

Pushing together, they lean back on the sofa. Rebecca trails kisses down Valencia's neck, along her collarbone, while V's hands run down her back, their hips pressing together, and Valencia gasps, and then they're kissing again, Rebecca's brain and body a flurry of sparks. She doesn't want to feel anything but this. This closeness. Valencia.

They break apart, breathless. Sitting up on the sofa, Rebecca smooths down her tangled hair. Beside her Valencia smiles unsteadily, but the light in her eyes is real —

_She might really have feelings for me. I might have feelings for her. Oh my God._

— and then Rebecca is shaking, because she knows this: this glitter-exploding feeling, this addiction. She knows it so well. And she knows so well how it ends.

Valencia's smile turns to concern, and she lays a hand on Rebecca's knee. "Hey. You okay?"

"I — I should go to sleep. I have a busy day at work tomorrow."

"Oh. Yeah, of course, me too." She fixes her own touseled hair, adjusts her necklace. "Was that — was that too much?"

Rebecca stands up, pacing. "No, it was good, I just... I need... I need to think for a bit. To... figure some things out."

Valencia nods. "Okay." Rebecca searches her face for signs of anger, or annoyance, but there's only concern, which feels even worse.

"Hey," says Rebecca. "We're still on for sushi, right?"

"For sure." Valencia smiles, a short sharp flash (nervous? annoyed? embarrassed? Rebecca's heart clunks in her chest), straightens her shirt and finger-combs her hair, even though it's already back to perfect.

As Valencia begins to walk to her car down the street, Rebecca calls out, "V?"

She turns her head.

"I had a really nice time tonight."

"Yeah." Valencia says. "Yeah, I did too."

"Text me when you get home safe, okay?"

"Always." Valencia walks out into the night, her heels clicking on the concrete. The moon's silver shines off the sequins of her shirt as she gets smaller beneath the blue-black sky and the green-black trees. Turning away, Rebecca closes the door, letting out a long breath as she leans back against it, sliding down until she's sitting on the floor.

Head to her knees, she feels her heartbeat reverberate through her chest, her toes, her fingertips, every nerve still alight. Her blood hums, a glitter of stimuli, and the air seems to vibrate wherever it touches her. She hasn't felt this good in months. Or this afraid.

Because she knows what she'll do for this feeling. And she knows what she'll do if she loses it. If she loses Valencia. She can't go through that again — and it would be even worse than losing Josh, because she'd also be losing one of her best friends. How can she risk that? She knows what she's capable of. She can't do that to Valencia.

At some point, she must have gotten up from the floor because she realizes she's pacing. That dissociation again. See? She can't control herself, and it's not fair to inflict that on V. How could she do that to someone she cares about? Really, really cares about?

Valencia makes her feel alive. She can't imagine her life without her. But that's the problem: relationships are her drug of choice, and she doesn't trust herself not to overdose.

But if Valencia likes her, has feelings for her, and Rebecca... she hadn't put it into words, but that gold glow that spreads through her when Valencia laughs, that light in V's eyes that makes the world feel full and beautiful and possible, their late-night conversations that rejuvenate both of their zest for living, the way she wants, more than anything, for V to be happy... yes, she likes Valencia. Of course she likes Valencia. And okay, maybe her emotions are addictive, but she wants to be there for V, to help her and support her and be with her. How can that be wrong?

Her homework:_ Spend some time with someone who matters to you, and write down how you feel about it._

She digs in her bag until she finds the notebook she bought for therapy a few months ago. Still in its wrapping. Peeling off the plastic, she opens it to the first page and, with a shaking hand, begins to write.

_Oh my God, I think I like her._


	6. never have problems again?

The evening he receives one of the strangest phone calls of his twenty-eight years begins like many others in Joshua "White Josh" Wilson's life. After a long day at the gym, he goes over to Darryl's house to make dinner together, the two of them exchanging playful touches and sneaking kisses as they prepare the Whitefeather family recipes for fried squash bread and paella — a strange combination, but then again, so is a personal trainer and an older, newly-out lawyer. And despite their differences, the unlikely pair seems to work. As WhiJo chops onions, Darryl massages his shoulders and his gym-sore body relaxes into a comfortable tiredness.

But not too tired. As WhiJo finished chopping, he turns around and meets his Selleck-esque boyfriend with a kiss, careful not to get onion juice on him.

This is always the best part of his day. And, as Darryl presses against him, their embrace deepening, he gets the sense the feeling is mutual.

They break apart just in time as Madison clambers down the stairs for help proofreading a story she's written about Snaily Minaj performing a show with gastropod-Canadian musician Slimes. WhiJo goes to look at it with her while Darryl supervises the sizzling gourd-flour.

"You're so good with kids," Darryl sighs, gazing at him lovingly as Madison departs to type up the edits. WhiJo's smile falters. He returns to the stove, stirs the paella.

Sooner or later, they're going to have to talk about this. But for now, he doesn't even want to think about... that. The future. Their future.

Darryl puts his arms around his boyfriend as he stirs, leans his chin on the younger man's shoulder. WhiJo tries to relax into his touch. The present is good. The two of them are good. Why ruin it by thinking about the hypothetical?

Even if the hypothetical draws closer each day. Even if, eventually, at least one of them is going to have to change the future he has envisioned.

Even if, these last few months, WhiJo has always seen that future as involving Darryl.

WhiJo has never been the sentimental type; all his life, he's prided himself on his independence. Sure, he loves his friends, but even as a kid he knew there were things they couldn't understand. They always stood up for him when he was being bullied, Josh and Hector running to his defense and young Greg retaliating against insults with biting sarcasm — to be honest, neither WhiJo nor his detractors really understood a lot of Greg's remarks, but they got the gist, and he appreciated it.

But even though WhiJo knew his friends would do anything for him, and vice-versa, they hadn't been targeted the same way he had. They didn't know the deep sense of shame and otherness he felt showing up to school, his weight scrutinized and mocked until it felt like not just his body but all of him was wrong and embarrassing. Which, whatever, was fine — he didn't want his friends to have to feel those things. But without knowing them, nor could they understand the force of determination, bordering on obsession, that fuelled him to get in shape, running laps around the track at recess and lifting weights in his room after class. A large part of that fuel was anger, both at himself and his classmates — he would be better, he would show them — but there was also something else, more vulnerable, something he wouldn't have admitted to.

He set out to be the person he wanted to be: physically and mentally strong, unfazed by others' disapproval, disciplined and determined to build the life he wanted. And day by day, through sheer force of willpower, it seemed he had done it. Kids stopped making fun of him; in fact, they turned to admiring his (long rehearsed) confident demeanor and newfound volleyball skills. The hypocrisy irritated him — just pretend to be cool, and everyone seemed to forget all about the shy, outcast kid he'd been. But gradually, even he forgot he was pretending. By the time sixth grade rolled around, he was able to say, "screw it," to his classmates' judgement and come out as gay — but by that point, he was so popular that no one judged him anyway.

As an adult, he's the stable one, the guy his less self-assured friends come to for advice. The guy who talks down Josh when he spirals, the guy who encourages Greg in his sobriety, the guy who has it all figured out.

But somewhere, behind his chill-if-judgey exterior, the old insecurity still lingers. A part of him still needs to be liked.

Okay, fine, he'll admit it — loved. And to love. He rails against the smarmy, heteropatriarchal, monogamist-picket-fence-cliché, but... he loves Darryl. The mix of comfort and excitement the other man awakens in him. The feeling of coming home.

A few times, WhiJo has opened up to Darryl about his insecurities. The time WhiJo binged on fries after a stressful day with a client, and his self-loathing turned into self-deprecating humour that went a bit too far, and instead of laughing at him Darryl touched his arm and said, "Don't say such mean things about the man I love." The time WhiJo had a nightmare about being back in second grade, the other kids chasing him, and woke them both as he cried out. He couldn't stop shaking, though he knew how stupid it was, being upset about something that had happened so long ago.

But Darryl listened to his rambling without judgement, held him in the dark. After, he said, _I love you. I'm so sorry you went through that. You're perfect. You've always been perfect, no matter what anyone told you._

WhiJo's shoulders had crumpled with embarrassment — some people had real problems, what right did he have to be so self-involved? And yet, as Darryl comforted him, he felt at ease in a way he wasn't familiar with, as though the sea that buoyed him had finally calmed, and he hadn't even realized it had been storming.

He'd never been in a relationship like this before. Usually guys were into him for his looks; Darryl wanted to know all of him. And as independent as WhiJo was, Darryl showed him that sometimes it was okay to lean on others.

_I love you too,_ he'd said back in the dark.

The thought of losing Darryl makes his insides ache.

Now, standing in the kitchen, Darryl asks, "What's wrong?" concern in his eyes as he runs a hand down WhiJo's jawline.

"Nothing," he says, leaning in to kiss him.

A couple hours later, homework edited, dishes cleared, and Madison tucked into bed, WhiJo has settled onto the sofa, Darryl snuggled into his shoulder, as the two discuss what to watch before bed.

"I'm telling you," says Darryl, "_Catfished by a Drug Smuggler_ is surprisingly subtle and nuanced journalism."

Before he can formulate a reply, WhiJo's phone rings.

He reaches for it, expecting Josh, who's been calling him a lot the past few weeks. Joining the priesthood hasn't gone as smoothly as Josh expected (_wow,_ thinks WhiJo, _who could have seen that coming?_) and he's been phoning to discuss his doubts. While WhiJo doesn't condone the ridiculous situations Josh gets himself into, he always makes sure to pick up.

But this time, it isn't Josh on the other end. In fact, it takes him several seconds to identify the caller, because it's the last person he would expect.

"Hello?"

"Hi," replies a woman's voice, a kind of purposeful brightness to it. Maybe a very forceful telemarketer, the kind who would keep other Josh stuck on the line for hours. "White Josh?"

Okay. Not a telemarketer. "Yeah?" he says, quirking an eyebrow at Darryl, who is already enthralled by drug smuggler hijinks.

"I need a favour," says the woman.

Ah. Now he recognizes her. "Valencia," he says. Then, since she doesn't have enough experience with humour to identify sarcasm, adds, "To what do I owe this pleasure? Also, how did you get this number?"

"I copied all of Josh's phone contacts when we were dating."

"That's... healthy."

"What? He wanted me to have as much backup as possible in case someone tried to 'bite me on Vampire Weekend.'"

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "So why are you calling me?"

Although he's known Valencia for almost two decades, he's pretty sure they've never had an actual conversation. Maybe Rebecca broke her sink, too. The two women have been hanging out a lot lately.

"I want your advice. It's about a... friend." There's a hesitation in her voice he hasn't heard before, a crack in her usual shiny hardness. She sounds almost flustered. Her words come out in a rush, like she's steeled herself to do this and is trying to get it over with as soon as possible. "I like her, okay? And I don't know if she feels the same, and last night I made a move, and I might have fucked everything up."

WhiJo stands, speechless, the phone a few inches from his ear; Valencia's voice had risen in volume as her anxiety mounted. It's more emotion than he's seen her show in all the years he's known her. Combined. He motions to Darryl that he has to take this call, and Darryl flashes a thumbs up, mouths back, _okay._

As WhiJo walks into the kitchen, Valencia breaks the silence, her voice back to its usual confident veneer. "Anyway. I thought I'd ask you since... you know. I figured you'd have some experiences with these things."

"Valencia, did you phone me because I'm the only gay person you know?"

"No! Well, partly. But mostly... I don't have that many close friends, okay? Most of my friends are also friends with her, and you've always been sensible, and I really don't have anyone else to talk to. So... please."

_We're close friends in her mind?_ The initial shock is replaced by sympathy — by "close friends," she just means "friends," and whether the two of them are even that is... debatable. Not that her pride would ever let her admit that. And knowing that pride, no wonder this call is such a strain on her to make.

He's never been particularly fond of Valencia, to say the least. He'd assumed that disinclination stemmed from her being Josh's shallow, domineering girlfriend. Now he finds himself wondering if it's because she reminds him of himself: the part of himself that needs constant approval, that hides his own insecurity behind judging others. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Okay," he says, "just tell me the situation. Slowly this time."

She fills him in on the details: this new girl she'd met, how she gradually realized the feelings she had were more than friendship. How this girl makes her feel alive. How Valencia had kissed her, and the feeling had seemed reciprocal, but then things had been quiet, neither of them knowing what to say as they parted ways.

Valencia never says a name, but WhiJo doesn't have to ask. Why is everyone in West Covina in love with a woman who shoves whole chickens down her garbage disposal?

But, though he doesn't understand their target, Valencia's feelings sound honest. There's a vulnerability in her voice he only _very_ rarely saw her show with Josh.

"She's the best friend I've ever had," says Valencia quietly. "I don't want to lose her."

WhiJo glances into the living room. Darryl breaks his gaze from the television, smiles up at him, and WhiJo has to look away. "Yeah," he says. "I get it."

He stretches his shoulder, tries to restore some sense of equilibrium before he speaks. "I think it's good to be honest." _Hypocrite,_ says the voice in his head. "You can't know how she's going to react — but if you're not up front with her, you'll never know. When you let someone into your life, you can't guarantee it's going to work out. But even if it works out differently than you expected, it can still mean something. And if you have the chance to make it work... you owe it to yourself to take that chance. Really connecting with someone — that's a rare thing. You shouldn't give that up without trying."

Several seconds of silence fall between them. Finally, Valencia says, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Really — I don't know how I'd even begin to explain this heart-to-heart to our friends."

"Oh please. They wish they were on our level of emotional intimacy."

"One conversation's worth."

"When you know what you're doing, that's all you need." He hears the smile in her voice and realizes she's making a joke.

She really has changed. Could it be that Rebecca, of all people, is actually good for her?

As he hangs up the phone, he reminds himself not to get too involved. Not his circus, not his monkeys.

Still, he kind of hopes they work out.

Besides, as much mayhem as Rebecca brought to West Covina, she also brought Darryl into his life. No matter what the future brings, a part of him will always be grateful for that.

"How's _Catfished by a Drug Smuggler_?" he says, rejoining his boyfriend on the sofa.

"Oh, it's a good one. The smuggler is posing as an identical twin, but little does she know she's catfishing her _actual_ identical twin. See, that one's the narcotics agent, and that one's the drug lord. But I think they're maybe going to team up."

"Unlikely pairs," WhiJo mumbles to himself.

"Hm?" says Darryl.

"Nothing," he says, and leans in to kiss his boyfriend.

**x**

"You slept with Vajazzlia?!"

Paula's eyes blaze, her whisper almost a hiss as Rebecca pulls her into the hallway and away from their coworkers' cubicles.

"Firstly: only in the literal sense; secondly: come on, you know her name; and thirdly: _can we talk in private?_" By the end of the sentence, Rebecca's voice is almost as frenzied as Paula's, as though her words are a substance escaping under immense pressure. Which is what it feels like.

Paula grabs her hand and drags her into the womens' washroom, where they find a man singing to himself over the sink. "Changing the soap, changing the soap, change me up a piece of that hand soap bar —"

"George?" says Paula. "Why are_ you_ here?"

His shoulders jump, spine stiffening as he turns and says, "Nathaniel has me changing the soaps to increase productivity. See, we've been using lavender, which promotes a sense of relaxation, and Nathaniel says a workplace thrives on terror."

"Well take your terror someplace else, we're having girl talk."

George scuttles off without question. Paula has that effect on people — Rebecca isn't sure at the moment whether or not to be grateful for that. Her friend isn't exactly renowned for her lack of judgementalness. But at least Rebecca can trust her to be direct.

_Thatta girl,_ a familiar Southern voice chimes out in her subconscious. _Resisting the urge to seek out enablers? That's character growth!_ She cringes as Doctor Phil claws his way out of whatever cognitive cave she's had him buried in.

Damn it, she used to be so good at repression.

"Cookie? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," says Rebecca, shaking it off.

"Okay, now tell me everything that happened." Paula takes her hands in a comforting gesture, and Rebecca finds the confidence to begin.

She starts once again with the day of the would-be wedding. How Valencia had been there for her, and she'd slept over at her place — "Platonically. Or, well, there was some cuddling, but sometimes women do that, since we're not bound up by the toxic masculinity that stigmatizes touch, and Professor Goddess made a really good point about the psychological impact of skin hunger —"

"Rebecca," says Paula, "I know you have a lot on your mind, but I can't give you advice unless you _actually tell me what's happening._"

"Right." Rebecca catches her breath and begins again, attempting to stick to the facts this time. After running through the events of the past several weeks, she concludes "...So then we kissed, and I freaked out, and now I'm still freaking out, and we're going for sushi Friday night unless these heart palpitations I'm currently experiencing turn into actual cardiac arrest. You know what, I'm actually also experiencing shortness of breath, and I think my arm hurts. Do I look unusually sweaty to you?"

"Rebecca, breathe." Paula's eyes widen, but when she speaks, her voice is even. "You're not dying. You've had panic attacks before."

"Why is there never pen vodka when you need it," Rebecca mutters.

She doesn't intend Paula to hear, but the older woman responds, "Sometimes friendship has to fill the role of alcohol. Back to your situation." She smiles gently as she takes Rebecca's hand, "Cookie, it will be okay. I mean, you've been through this before, right? You were feeling close to her, and you kissed her... with all you've been through lately, she can't blame you for giving off mixed signals. You just have to calmly tell her you're not interested."

Rebecca concentrates on inhaling and exhaling. _It's impossible to be anxious if you're breathing correctly_, one of her legion of past therapist once told her. She's pretty sure that's bullshit. But she's not currently feeling the confidence to claim with any certainty that, on top of all her other problems, she doesn't also suck at breathing.

"That's the thing, though," Rebecca says quietly, staring at her shoes. "I don't know if it's true that I'm not interested."

She forces herself to look up at Paula, into her eyes for hints of judgement — Paula was mad enough at her when Rebecca wanted to be friends with Valencia, and now Rebecca's messed up the whole love story Paula planned for her with Josh, which was the whole thing that brought their friendship together in the first place... but she can't read Paula's expression, so she continues. "I mean, I don't know exactly what I feel for her... but I feel something. And I get it, that I'm probably just in, like, a rebound headspace. But what I feel for her... it feels _good_. I really like her. I mean, I get that I make awful decisions, and my emotions are all over the place, and I'm impulsive, and I fall for people too quickly and I mess it all up and _I know_. But I just — I need you to tell me I'm not crazy."

"Oh cookie." Paula's eyes soften, and Rebecca feels both reassured and guilty about the worry that appears in them. She touches Rebecca's face, a gesture Rebecca assumes is maternal though her own mother never did anything of the sort. "Of course you're not crazy. I'm just... surprised, I guess. I mean, it isn't the story I imagined for you. But you know what? It's not _my_ story. Rebecca, I just want you to be happy."

Paula lifts her hands in a gesture of "whatever," but a liberating whatever. "I mean, I wasn't thrilled when you wanted to be friends with Valencia, either — but you made it work. This is your life, and if something feels real to you — well, you're the one who knows best."

Rebecca feels herself tearing up. "Thanks, Paula. That means a lot to hear. You ever used her real name."

Paula rolls her eyes but smirks. "Yeah, well, I'm trying to be nicer. Did you know people have been calling me the office bitch?"

"No," says Rebecca, forcing her mouth into an o as she feigns surprise. For someone who's taken drama classes, it's not a very convincing performance. _Doesn't she have a mug that says, "Office Bitch?"_

But Rebecca doesn't have to perform when she says, "They don't know you like I know you. You're kind, and you're thoughtful, and you're brilliant. You're gonna be a kickass lawyer. And you're the best friend I could ever ask for. "

"Thanks, cookie." She opens her arms and Rebecca pulls her into a tight hug.

The bathroom door creaks as a timid male voice calls out, "Rebecca? Are you th—"

"George, bother us one more time and I will rip off your arms and beat you with them," Paula calls out. The door closes and the two women continue their embrace.

Soon, Rebecca feels ready to be a person again. Back to a normal-ish heart rate, she reassures Paula that she's fine and will join her back at work in a few minutes. Turning to the mirror, she fixes her hair and eyeliner, reapplies a coat of lipstick.

Paula doesn't think she's crazy. Okay, so she has feelings for Valencia. That's okay. It might even turn out to be a good thing. After all, Valencia also seems to like her — like her enough to kiss her! — and that's... pretty awesome.

The warmth rises in her face as she remembers that kiss, the way Valencia's lips parted, her mouth soft and warm. Rebecca's hands running through her long soft hair and Valencia pulling her in, closer and closer.

Her heart speeds up again and she resumes those calming breathing exercises. Maybe now isn't the best time for such thoughts. But she smiles.

She'll take a chance and see what happens. Despite all the flaws Rebecca sees in herself, a lack of risk-taking has never been one of her problems, so why start now? She likes Valencia. Valencia likes her. Why not go for it?

As Rebecca washes her hands, bubbles frothing in the warm water, a strong musky odour rises in the air and burns the back of her nasal passage. "Ugh, that smell is terrifying." She checks the bottle of soap George left. "'Lone Wolf Earthquake?' How is that even a scent?"

She chucks the bottle in the trash, replaces it with a bar of lavender hand soap she'd accidently-on-purpose pocketed at the mall yesterday while psyching herself up to talk to Paula.

Lavender is good for anxiety, so really, it was self-care.

_And we're back to denial,_ Doctor Phil pipes up. She mentally shushes him.

She returns to her desk, proud of herself for looking Normal and Professional. Beside her papers, she sees a white box wrapped in a lavender bow. She opens it and finds a warm, fluffy pretzel.

"That's what I wanted to tell you," says George from across the room. "A delivery guy dropped that off for you."

She notices a small white envelope tucked into the ribbon. She opens it to find a handwritten card, the letters penned in simple, elegant calligraphy.

_To R,_  
_Looking forward to our next adventure._  
_—V_

As affection melts through Rebecca, she's more certain than ever that Paula is right. So what if developing feelings for Valencia wasn't in the plan? Neither was moving to West Covina. Neither was befriending Paula, or Darryl, or Heather. Neither were any of the best things in her life. She wouldn't trade them for any plan in the world.

Rebecca glances up at Nathaniel's office, sees he's busy lecturing George (probably about another soap-related emergency). She takes out her phone and texts V: _Thanks. (heart emoji) Me too._

A few minutes later, her phone lights up with a flower emoji and _See you tomorrow._

Paula catches her eye across the room, and when Rebecca holds up the present, Paula gives her a thumbs up and a grin. Rebecca grins back. Although her heart is still racing, she gets the feeling she's finally doing something right.

**x**

Friday takes forever to come around. Or maybe it arrives in the blink of an eye — neither Rebecca nor Valencia is quite sure what time is doing. The days seem to pass at a glacial pace, yet date night somehow arrives before either feels she's had an adequate chance to prepare.

In the days leading up, Rebecca tries on almost three dozen outfits, posing in her room and compulsively repositioning two full-length mirrors to examine herself from every possible angle. Just in case, for some reason, these shoes making the back of her left knee look weird is a dealbreaker. She's determined to prepare for every possibility, no matter how improbable. She's always excelled at first impressions, studied for dates with the same attention she put into preparing for the bar exam. She's not going to mess it up this time. Not when the stakes are so high.

Yet there are variables that make this situation different. For one thing, it's not a first impression; sure, she can memorize V's interests, discern the aesthetic that would appeal to her, adopt whatever attitude V likes to see. But Valencia actually knows her. No matter how good her performance, Valencia will recognize it as an act. The prospect fills her stomach with anxiety.

And yet... maybe this could be a good thing. Valencia has seen her as she is, flaws and all. And V_ likes_ her. Not the performance of Smart Capable Harvard-Educated Sexy Female Lawyer, but actually... her. Valencia has seen her dumped, seen her tired, seen her angry, and crying, and giddily obsessing over less-than-cool interests — and V still likes her. It's different, and new, and invigorating. It's not a type of openness she thought could be possible, not for her: to be seen for who she is still seen as worthwhile. It's totally different from her past relationships (it's one date, don't get ahead of yourself, Rebecca). And although it's scary, it's... also a lot less lonely. To believe she can be with someone and not have to constantly hide parts of herself. Not have to wonder if, when the person sees who she truly is, they'll realize they never wanted her at all.

Rebecca turns side to side, looks at herself in the silver lamé dress she'd bought back when she met Valencia, the one she'd worn when they first went out dancing together. When she'd thought that she wanted to _be_ Valencia, unable to otherwise make sense of the feelings inside her.

It does look good. And she knows Valencia likes it. But she takes it off, puts it back in the closet, tries on a short black dress instead.

She'd bought this one in New York, on the shopping spree she embarked on the same day she purchased a one-way ticket to West Covina. A new wardrobe for a new life, a new Rebecca. She'd envisioned herself in this dress, dining with Josh in upscale restaurants, how it would complement the effortless cool of his tailored suit. That was before she accepted that Josh wasn't really into upscale dining or tailored suits (_or me_, she thinks, the self-deprecation now more reflex than anything), and he couldn't or wouldn't change himself to please her, no matter how much she tried to mold herself into a woman he could love.

After all, wasn't that what love was? A willingness to anticipate someone's desires, to give them everything, to give _up_ everything? _Look how much I love you,_ she'd wanted to say. _Enough to throw away my whole life._

But maybe that sentiment didn't mean much when she'd spent her whole life running from herself. Maybe it wasn't even about love at all.

She'd planned to go on a crash diet before wearing this dress out in public, secretly praying that going off her meds would induce a hypomanic exercise spree. Hell, she'd have settled for a sexy French depression killing her appetite; anything so that her mother's voice in her head would stop picking apart every angle of her body. But contrary to all her plans for New Rebecca, her episodes continued to fall more on the side of decidedly unsexy Swiss (chocolate) binge eating in her pajamas. Her instability preferred excess to deprivation, for the most part.

There were moments when impulses towards her college eating disorder would creep up, and although she had done a lot of work to get better and tried to feel proud for not relapsing, a part of her nagged that this resistance — even though it took so much willpower — was actually just laziness. Just another way she was failing.

She tries not to talk about her past bulimia, though when the anxiety-rambles kick in, occasionally she'll let slip a joke about it. It's not a part of her past she's proud of, not a version of herself she wants to see the light of day. Bad feminist as it may make her, she hates to think of anyone seeing her as _that_ girl. She's tried so hard to prove she's not needy, destructive, or "crazy." That would all be undercut if she admits she'd been — that she still sometimes is — driven by this desire to act against her own best interests. Against her own survival.

She doesn't want to be that kind of person. The emptiness scares her, so she tries not to think about it.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, she catches her anxious expression. When she first tried on this dress in the store, she had felt good about herself. But trying it on the next day in her Manhattan apartment, she'd been self-conscious, resolved to only wear it once she'd shrunk down to the perfect version of herself. But here she is now, in her new life in West Covina, living in the future she'd romanticized. And she still looks like herself.

Turning now, she examines herself from different angles, braces for the worst. But... she looks okay. Not perfect, maybe, but... not bad. Actually, kind of hot. Yeah, you know what? She's still got it. She looks like Rebecca Bunch, and maybe that doesn't have to be a bad thing. She thinks of the date coming up, catches herself smiling. It's not her flashing stage grin, or her coy tell-me-more smirk, or her seductive half-smile. It's unrehearsed, a bit nervous. But she means it.

**x**

While Rebecca is searching through her wardrobe, Valencia is more high-strung than usual as she leads her students through various yoga poses. Thankfully, she also has her party planning business, which, bolstered by Rebecca's encouragement, she's been putting more time into. She busies herself with getting the word out, emailing potential clients between classes, meticulously fine-tuning details as she proposes event plans. She's surprised how much she likes it; she'd forgotten she had this creative side, and she loves the feeling of the elements coming together with a_ click_. She can trust herself to do things right — and at the moment, that sense of control is a relief.

Rebecca's spontaneity is one of the things that drew Valencia to her. But without the familiar, heterosexual script — girl flirts, boy asks her out, etcetera — she's out of her element in a way she's never been before. It's a lot harder to be cool and aloof when you actually _care_. Her past relationships had been less about romance than other factors: gaining status, meeting the milestones for success, alleviating boredom. Hell, even just the company. She would have settled for a photogenic guy who didn't irritate the crap out of her, and even _that_ was hard enough to come by.

Going on a date with Rebecca... well, this is new. And crazy as the situation may feel, it's exciting to realize she can be excited about dating.

Besides, she's never been one for passivity, anyway.

**x**

The day of the date, Nathaniel is in an especially irritable mood (Rebecca isn't sure whether that's a cause or an effect of him having spent the day sipping a radioactive-green smoothie, his face scrunched up but claiming it was "delicious") and nearly makes her late as he interrogates her about a client. Thankfully, Paula sees her distress and creates a diversion by alerting Nathaniel that someone's replaced his terror-soaps, and Rebecca sneaks out just in time as George gets an earful (sorry, George). Even so, she has to rush across the parking lot, drive home, and change with lightning speed in order to make it in time to pick up Valencia at her apartment. When she knocks, Valencia steps out wearing a deep blue dress and a radiant smile that makes Rebecca's breath catch.

"How's your day?" says Valencia. She leans in to give her a peck on the cheek, but Rebecca miscalculates, turns her head and kisses Valencia on the mouth. At first she's embarrassed, though she quickly realizes it's a mistake neither of them really minds, to say the least. A blush creeps up Rebecca's cheeks as Valencia deepens the kiss, smiling at her with sparkling eyes when they separate.

"Well now it's good," says Rebecca, slipping her hand into V's. As Valencia grins, Rebecca feels like the luckiest woman in the world.

It also feels pretty cool as the guy at the Very Exclusive Sushi Place reads their names off the reservation list and undoes the velvet rope (_velvet rope? This place is très legit_), leading them to a table beside a window glittering with stars in an ocean-black night. Moonlight and candlelight dance off the silverware and in the glasses of rosé the waiter pours them, and even more than she enjoys the beauty of the scene, Rebecca enjoys watching Valencia take it all in.

But the coolest thing of all is how natural it feels. As much as Rebecca had stressed about how to behave, they quickly slip into a dynamic that's... fun. God, she forgot flirting could be fun. How good it feels, to just talk, and laugh, and be with someone she really, really likes.

They talk about everything from Valencia's party planning, to Rebecca's trip to Ghana, to _The Great Gatsby_ — despite the book's antisemitism, which Rebecca once wrote a paper on, they both agree that, aesthetically speaking, the jazz age was lit (a phrase Rebecca had heard Heather use). And as the conversation flows, that's also an apt description of how Rebecca feels: like she's carrying a candle inside her chest, filling everything in her that had been hollow with a new, luminous warmth.

In the bubble and glitter of the evening, it's easy to imagine the moment as an elaborate musical number: the glissando of piano keys, her and Valencia harmonizing, flapper dresses and pearls and feathers — and yet, as the image starts to percolate in her mind, Rebecca pulls herself back to the room. To the taste of rice and wasabi, to her laughter, to Valencia's real smile as the two weave a tapestry of inside jokes.

For once, she doesn't need to fantasize. She's exactly where she wants to be.

The anxiety that usually strums her heartstrings is silent, and she has no trouble sticking to the single glass of wine she promised herself (since she's driving). For this rare moment, she's not nervous, or frantic, or overcome with the feeling of something missing. Valencia is laughing at her jokes, and that feels like everything she could possibly need.

At one point, Rebecca accidentally lets slip a _Harry Potter_ reference, and rather than scoffing at her nerdiness, Valencia joins in – "I said I was popular, not Amish. Not to mention a lot of clients want _Harry Potter_ parties" — and they sort their friends into houses.

After they've sorted Darryl into Hufflepuff, Heather into Ravenclaw, and Paula (tentatively) into Gryffindor, Rebecca says, "And what about you? What's your alignment?"

Valencia swirls her wine. "Oh, I'd say I have some Slytherin tendencies."

"What? No, you're way too nice."

"Ha, says the girl who keeps roping me into minor crimes." She smirks. "What can I say, I'm ambitious. You've got one life, might as well make it count."

"Okay, now that I can get behind. Well, I for one am a Ravenclaw."

"Are you really?"

Rebecca laughs, "What's that supposed to mean? You know I love learning."

"Yeah, but do you love it because of the learning, or because of what you can use it to achieve?"

"Because of the learning! Come on, you think I studied up on bell hooks — or _Harry Potter,_ for that matter — to achieve some nefarious goal?"

"I never said it was nefarious." Valencia smiles coyly. "I'm just saying, you would do well in Slytherin."

Rebecca grins. "Did you just quote the sorting hat? You know, I never saw it coming, but you might be nerdier than I am."

"Um, excuse me, you recognized the quote, so I'd say we're equal, Ravenclaw."

"Now that's just reverse psychology. You're trying to ferret out — snake out — my inner Slytherin, right?"

"No." Valencia leans in, holds Rebecca's gaze with the dark stars of her eyes. "It's a big message in the series — you are who you choose to become." She lays her hand atop Rebecca's on the table, quirks one corner of her mouth in an enigmatic smile.

Rebecca weaves their fingers together. "I'd say I'm pretty happy with our current choices."

Valencia's eyes sparkle in the candlelight as she raises her glass. "To who we're becoming."

With Valencia's rosé and Rebecca's glass of water, they entwine their arms and drink.

Rebecca's feeling of invincibility persists throughout the evening. Even when her attempt at a sexy hair flip is more reminiscent of a young Justin Bieber than a Pantene commercial, and even when Valencia drops half a piece of uni in her wine (it only makes Rebecca like her more, to see her do something so human), the feeling never fractures. It's better than anything she could have planned or fantasized. And it's real life.

When she drives Valencia home, the two sit for a moment in the car outside her building, holding hands and looking up at the huge silver moon in comfortable silence. Rebecca walks her to her door, and they say goodbye with a decidedly non-platonic kiss.

"See you this weekend?" says Valencia when they pull apart, her voice bold and shy all at once.

"Totally," says Rebecca, a bit breathless. As she walks to her car, she wonders if there have always been so many stars.

Driving home, she passes one of those weird butter billboards: _Are you living your best life?_ She answers with an unequivocal, _Yes._

That night she lays in bed, snuggling into Ruth Gator Ginsberg and scrolling Valencia's Instagram, too happy to sleep. She replays their conversation over and over, feeling the warm pulse of her heart spread through every toe and fingertip, her body a blossom of electricity.

Everything is getting better and better. What had she even been worried about?


	7. a diagnosis

A week later, Rebecca is tapping her fingers against the wheel of her Subaru Legacy, humming along to the South Pacific score as she drives down Badillo street. Her good mood is bulletproof — even the broken-down semi congesting traffic seems less like an imposition than an opportunity, granting her the time to dust off her solo and flex the old vocal chords, even if only in her mind.

_"I'm in love I'm in love I'm in love_  
_I'm in love with a wonderful gaaaaaal!"_

Not that she and Valencia are using the L word (though Rebecca _is_ watching_ The L Word_. You know, for cultural education purposes). But it seems like only a matter of time. They're meant to be; she feels it in every cell of her blood and bones, her entire body alight with certainty. Finally, Rebecca's on the right path, her real path. This time, she knows who she is and what she wants.

As the traffic director motions that she can move ahead, she's so busy being _really fully present in the moment_ that she forgets to press the gas pedal. The frizzy-haired soccer mom in the SUV behind her honks, glaring. Rebecca waves, smiling back in the rearview mirror; clearly _someone's_ not tuned into the munificent nature of fate today. In her smile, Rebecca tries to convey wisdom, compassion and the benevolence of the universe. To let the lady know, no matter how late her carload of screaming sixth-graders are for practice, it will all work out in the end. Everything always does.

The woman flips her the bird, honks again. One of the preteens launches his cleat out the window.

Oh well. Sometimes enlightenment takes time.

Rebecca's on her way to that group therapy Doctor Akopian recommended. Not that she needs it. In fact, that's exactly why she's going — now that she's got her life figured out, describing it to a room full of strangers is _much_ less intimidating. Her mental health levels are off the chain (which is a good thing, or at least it seems to be, from how Maya used the expression. Whatever, point is, she's feeling the self-love). Besides, she's not one to pass up a chance to mention she's dating a super-hot yoga instructor slash brilliant party planner slash all around incredible awesome person who has awakened her to the wonders of life.

She's not saying therapy is a competition... but if it were, theoretically, she would win. Plus, she's been brushing up on bell hooks' _All About Love_, so she's ready to pepper in some intersectional truth bombs. Bring it on.

Naomi always said Rebecca would grow out of her depression, and as much as she hates admitting her mother was right about anything, Rebecca might be willing to make an exception in this case. Obviously mental illness isn't that simple — of course she knows that — but she finally feels like she's getting better. She finally _likes_ herself. And after all those years of self-loathing, isn't she allowed to have this?

If depression is a distortion, this is reality. She likes Valencia. V likes her. That's everything she needs.

The two of them have been texting every day, going over to each other's apartments several times a week for tea, dinner, and _Buffy_ marathons (not that a lot of watching gets done, if you catch her drift). Somehow, it's easy without being boring. V laughs at her jokes and asks about her emotions, doesn't make her feel too ambitious or intense or annoying — she listens to her, and Rebecca listens to Valencia, too, drinking in everything she says about party themes and travel goals, about yoga and her family and the insecurities Rebecca never would have expected from someone so _incredible_. It's not like with Josh, where she wanted to fix him — she wouldn't change a thing about Valencia. She just wants to be with her.

With Valencia, it's easy to be herself. And with Valencia, Rebecca finally knows who that is.

She spent the night at V's that weekend, and everything had felt so... normal. Which was in itself _not_ normal for Rebecca. As they touched, Rebecca wasn't outside her body, observing herself like a character in a movie, scrutinizing whether she was attractive and likable and charming and _good_ enough. Nor was she immersed in a loss of control, in the release of giving in and no longer caring about anything beside immediate physical sensations, besides blotting out her thoughts and losing herself in another person until she no longer cared who she was or what happened to her.

Instead, when Valencia's body curved against hers... she was _there_. And she wanted to be there. Feeling close to Valencia. Feeling good.

After, as she lay against V's chest listening to her heartbeat, Valencia stroking her hair, Rebecca felt... full. That gaping sense of emptiness, that constant, exhausting desire for something more that had plagued her all her life... it was gone. She had everything she could possibly want.

She was happy.

_The space of our lack is also the space of possibility_, bell hooks wrote. Everything in Rebecca life's — everything in Rebecca herself — that had once seemed empty now seemed to overflow with potential. All that time she'd worried she was broken… well, now that just seemed silly. Valencia is amazing. Clearly she wouldn't be interested in Rebecca if Rebecca had something wrong with her.

When she woke up that Sunday morning, Valencia was still beside her. As Rebecca stirred, breathing in the roasted corn scent of Valencia's hair, the brunette turned to her and smiled, and it was better than any movie scene or music video or musical because it was it was _real_. Valencia laced her fingers with Rebecca's, looked into her with deep brown eyes warmed to amber in the sunlight. And existence felt easy. Felt possible. Rebecca marvelled that she had ever felt otherwise.

This elation persisted as she brushed her teeth (her purple toothbrush co-homing in a cup with Valencia's green one), as she chopped peaches while Valencia did her morning stretches, as Valencia cut her stretching routine short and came in for a kiss as Rebecca was brewing tea. Rebecca wrapped her arms around her, pulling her closer, and Valencia lifted her onto the countertop and kissed her deeply, Rebecca tracing her fingers up the curves of Valencia's tattoos, heat blossoming through her body as the teapot lay forgotten on the table.

And after, as Type A Slytherin(-adjacent) perfectionists as both women could be, they nevertheless agreed the undrinkably strong chai was well worth the interruption.

Following breakfast, as Valencia donned her blazer for a party planning meeting and Rebecca un-mussed her hair in the bedroom mirror, the blonde's eye caught on the books on the dresser.

She walked over, ran her fingers along their spines: _Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, Party Planner Bible, How to Market Your Business._ "Hey, I thought you weren't into reading. I mean, I thought you said you preferred journaling — which, you know, that's cool! But this is a lot more… non-homemade sentences than there used to be around your place."

"Oh, yeah, I guess so." Valencia looked up from applying mascara. When she spoke again, there was a quietness in her voice that caught Rebecca off guard, a fracture in her usual confidence. "I used to read everything about yoga — I mean, it was my passion — but then things sorta… plateaued. But then you came along, and you were always so motivated, and encouraging, and..." she waved her hand, "now I'm starting this party planning business! Which is terrifying, but not as much as the prospect of just being... stuck." She smiled. "You made me believe I could be the person I wanted to be."

Rebecca walked over and kissed her.

Even stuck in traffic, Rebecca is still on cloud nine. Valencia _likes_ her. Her mind is clear as a bell and her insides are warm and purring and glittery, and, mixed as that metaphor may be, she's one damn happy hybrid chime-feline-disco-ball. _Valencia_ likes her. As she listens to her musical playlists, every love song sounds like it was written specifically for them. Well, not every song — just the happy ones, and the unhappy ones she skips, because they're no longer relevant. She's finally seeing clearly: the world in all its sparkling glory; the incredible excitement of being alive; the underlying love effervescing through the universe. It's better than any psych med she's ever been on. Valencia likes _her_.

She loves Valencia — likes, she corrects herself, again. But Rebecca _does_ love her own life. So she's off to therapy. She's ready for breakthroughs, epiphanies! To dazzle some psychiatrists!

Maybe she'll help the other patients get their lives together, too. After all, she's a good person.

In her rearview mirror, the semi driver leaps back, narrowly avoiding the burst of flame as his engine implodes. She sends her thoughts and (the Jewish-but-doesn't-consistently-believe-in-God equivalent of) prayers as she drives on.

**x**

She pulls her Subaru Legacy (okay, point taken why some of her friends seemed to know from the get-go that she wasn't entirely straight) into the parking lot outside a cheery-looking office building, still humming as she steps out. _I'm in love I'm in love I'm in love._ Striding up to the door, she holds it open for a slouching girl with dark eyeliner who steps through with a toneless, "Thanks."

_Now _she_ seems like she needs therapy,_ thinks Rebecca, immediately chastising herself for that decidedly un-feminist sentiment — no woman owes the world a smile. Nevertheless, she's pretty sure she's in the right place. And with her new zest for life, she looks forward to helping her troubled peers ascend from the throes of depression. (_Note to self: write a self-help book? Come back to this later._)

As she follows the punk girl, Rebecca all but bounces up the stairs. If the other woman embodies the night, Rebecca is day: she's wearing sky-blue heels and a sunny yellow dress patterned with flowers. It feels appropriate for the start of this new, luminous chapter in her life. After the long winter of depression, anxiety, and emptiness, summer is finally here. It's her season.

Upstairs, she finds another women and two men seated in a circle of plastic chairs. One of the men, a handsome dark-haired fellow, smiles as he rises to shake her hand. "Hi, you must be Rebecca. It's great to meet you. I'm Doctor Shin. Please take a seat anywhere you like."

She thanks him, beams magnanimously at the other patients and (for some reason) curtsies as she takes her seat. The middle-aged woman nods timidly and the punk girl bores into her with unimpressed eyes.

Rebecca is scanning her phone, grinning at a selfie Valencia posted of the two of them on Instagram (captioned with a sparkly heart), when she hears a familiar male voice.

"Rebecca?" For a moment, she can't place the middle-aged, sandy-haired man who sits down beside her. He's someone she would more expect to encounter in the West Covina sewer system than her own therapy session.

"Bert!" she says, voice rising with surprise she tries to mask as excitement.

"How have you been? It's great to see you again — you know, thank you for all your help with the water system, it was so refreshing to finally have a lawyer believe me —"

As he talks on, all she can do is nod numbly, eyes wide, mouth flash-frozen in a smile.

She likes Bert. He reminds her of a woman she met in the hospital, a middle-aged librarian, Mira, going through a schizoaffective episode. Mira, who had dark circles around her eyes and a voice barely louder than a whisper, took the time to make sure Rebecca was eating and sleeping and going out in the sun, even while the older woman struggled with her own paranoia. Mira was afraid the staff were poisoning their meals, spying on their showers, videotaping their dreams. She couldn't remember to brush her hair or which way around to wear her clothing. But she remembered the other patients' names and birthdays, their histories and favourite foods. When Rebecca was having one particularly bad day, unable to stop crying about how she'd ruined her life, Mira had snuck into the kitchen and brought her an extra pretzel packet, secreted away in a napkin — _This one's safe,_ she'd whispered, palming it to Rebecca when the staff weren't looking.

Rebecca had barely interacted with Mira, or anyone, in the weeks she'd been there. Between the tranquilizers and the depression, she felt like she was on the ocean floor, crushed by the colourless weight of the water, barely able to move or think. The doctors passed her on like paperwork and spoke of her as though she couldn't hear them. Her family refused to visit her, and if she'd had any friends before the Robert fiasco (which she doubted), she certainly didn't have any now. In the antiseptic corridors, she felt stripped of humanity; everyone had seen who she really was, and now they hated her.

Except here was this middle-aged woman, seeing her at her worst and handing her a packet of pretzels, smiling gently, expecting nothing in return.

As she took the pretzels, some cog inside Rebecca clicked back into place; she began to feel like a person again, albeit an exhausted one. It was a lot of work to bend her mouth into a faint approximation of a smile, to generate thoughts and move them around until they reached her mouth. "Thanks," she said.

"Take care of yourself, Rebecca."

"I will. You too, Mira."

And through the thick, plasticky fog of medication, a thought: _I can do this._

A week later, Rebecca left the facility.

After her time in the hospital, Rebecca suspects she's less prejudiced against psychosis than the average person. Or at least, she tries to be. For all the anti-ableism texts she read in college, it's different to meet actual people are actually struggling.

But... she isn't struggling. She likes Bert, but she isn't _like_ Bert. Is she? Is this Akopes' way of telling her she's schizophrenic? Because that bedside manner leaves a hell of a lot to be desired, and Rebecca will be sending her a bouquet of strongly worded Yelp reviews—

"Rebecca?" says Bert. "You okay?"

She shakes it off. "Yeah. Sorry, just — just a bit overwhelmed."

He nods. "I hear ya. It blew my mind when I first got diagnosed. I mean, borderline — heck, I didn't even know what that _was_."

She interrupts his soft laughter. "I'm sorry, 'borderline' what exactly?"

His eyes focus. "Borderline personality disorder. I was misdiagnosed with schizophrenia for years, and then being told it was something different, I was like, _whaat_? But the more I thought about it, it made sense. The obsessions, the relationship difficulties, the mood swings—"

"Could you excuse me?"

Sequestering herself in a washroom stall, she pulls out her phone and, fingers shaky, Googles _borderline personality disorder_.

A moment later, there she is, heart hammering, on the verge of tears, sitting on the lid of a toilet in her bright yellow dress, reading the worst two-and-a-half sentences she has read in her entire life. Wondering how she ever deluded herself into thinking she could do this.

"This" meaning be a person. Meaning be Rebecca Nora Bunch.

The happiness that's been glowing inside her hardens, goes brittle and shatters.

_...severe difficulty regulating emotions..._

_...unstable relationships..._

_...self-destructive behavior..._

_...fear of abandonment..._

_...chronic feelings of emptiness..._

_...one of the most stigmatized mental illnesses..._

_...many psychiatrists refuse to treat patients with BPD..._

_...10% rate of suicide._

Her eyes burn and her insides are a mass of twisted ice. She thought she was getting better. But this doesn't sound like something people get better from.

It's her personality.

Not something she has, but something she is.

Robert was right. Josh was right. Everyone has always been right about her.

Crazy.

Broken.

"Rebecca—" says Doctor Shin when she emerges. The group is sitting in their plastic chairs, their little circle almost full. One space left for her.

"I have to go," she says, anger in her voice to keep it from breaking. She beelines for the door, careful not to let anyone see her face.

As she drives away, the office building looks a lot less cheery than she thought it did. Undecorated and anonymous, the white paint scratched with dust, it looks empty and desperate. It doesn't look like anything at all.

**x**

"_Fatal Attraction_? Really?"

Noelle Akopian stares in confusion — both at the words and the fact that Rebecca Bunch is in her doorway at 9:07 in the evening, just as she's been settling in with Davit to watch _The Good Wife_. After a few startled seconds, Noelle manages to mask her disquiet behind her Requisite Therapy Voice.

"Rebecca," she says. "What are you doing here?"

Fury bubbles through Rebecca's entire demeanor; her eyes are wild, and her hands gesticulate frantically, as though it physically hurts to stand still. "I went to that therapy you recommended and — who knew! It's for borderline personality disorder. And see, I didn't know what that was, so I Googled it, and it turns out it's what Glenn Close has in _Fatal Attraction_ — you know, that fun little quirk that makes her stalk a guy and boil his bunny. _That's_ how you see me? I thought — I thought I could trust you! I thought you liked me. I thought you actually cared." Rebecca's voice comes out increasingly strangled. She tries to smile, as though she's won an argument, but the corners of her mouth just shake.

"Rebecca, let's talk in my office."

Her patient nods, and Noelle goes inside to retrieve her therapy shawl. _This might take a while_, she mouths as she passes Davit, who's reading _Psychology Today_ on the sofa. He nods and mouths back, _Good luck_.

**x**

Soon, seated across from each other in the office, Akopian says, "Now Rebecca, can you please tell me — slowly — what's going on?"

Her mind and words still racing, Rebecca launches into her story: going to group therapy, meeting Bert, Googling borderline on the toilet. She doesn't mention how, parked in Akopian's driveway, she compulsively Googled it again, even as her mind spun so quickly she could only take in every third word. As she scrolled through angry men on message boards armchair diagnosing their ex-girlfriends, the disorder seemed to be more of a synonym for "horrible person" than a legitimate mental illness. A synonym for "needy, manipulative lying little bitch who ruins things." A synonym for everything she'd feared about herself.

But she couldn't stop scrolling, even as the words hollowed out her insides, the corners of her vision stained an ashy grey as she struggled to breathe. There was a kind of sick satisfaction in it: all these strangers telling her she was exactly as awful as she'd worried. That all she did by existing was inconvenience a lot of people.

She finishes her story, "...And now the internet's telling me I have Crazy Bitch Disease, and that my personality is disordered, and all these people online _hate_ people with BPD, except this one guy giving pointers on how to pick up crazy chicks because we're so desperate for love we'll do anything in bed, so thank god for him, the one true ally—"

"Rebecca. May I speak?"

She swallows, nods, her vision wavering.

"So you didn't stay for the therapy session, correct?"

Rebecca bites her lip.

"I understand," says the doctor, "you felt like you had just learned something major about yourself — or like I had declared something major about you. But first off, the information online about BPD is often based on outdated stereotypes — Hollywood movies, that kind of thing. And secondly, DBT isn't only for BPD."

"DB, BP — sorry, can you back up with all these acronyms?"

"Right, sorry. Dialectical Behaviour Therapy — the type I referred you to — was originally designed to help people with borderline personality disorder, yes. And it's proven to be highly effective. But regardless of diagnosis, it can help with emotional stability, sense of identity, impulse control, and thinking in terms of nuance rather than seeing things as all good or all bad. You yourself mentioned these are issues you want to work on, right?"

"Yes, but —" Rebecca blinks the blurriness out of her eyes, steeples her fingers and leans forward like she's presenting a legal argument. "I was doing well. Really well. I just started a new relationship, and it actually seems like a healthy one for once. And then I went to that group, and it's like... it's like you think something's really wrong with me." The blurriness comes back quicker than she can blink it away, smearing the room with white light.

"Rebecca." Akopian speaks gently but firmly. "Why are you seeing me?

"Anxiety, depression, OCD, a lack of maternal affection, and most likely an attachment style that is not the good one."

"Okay, those are clinical terms. But what about you — what do _you_ think is the issue? Not what others have told you about yourself — what do you want to work on?"

She's quiet for a long moment. Staring at the floor, she mumbles, "I just want to be happy."

"And what does happiness look like to you?"

Shouldn't it be obvious? "Like being loved." She looks up but can't quite meet the psychologist's eyes. "Knowing, all the time, that someone cares about me, and that they won't ever stop. No longer feeling like I was sick the day in school where they taught you how to be a person — feeling like I'm real, like I'm enough, like I'm wanted. And like I'm not going to fuck it all up."

"It sounds like perceived abandonment is a big major stressor for you."

She laughs bitterly. "Yeah." She doesn't mention Josh, and Greg, and her father, and Robert, but the four men hang their chill in the air like ghosts.

Rebecca pushes her fringe out of her face, takes a breath. "It's like... the ground I stand on is constantly shifting. One moment someone shows they care about me, and I'm on top of the world — and then they look at me funny, or don't answer a text, and suddenly I'm falling. And I never know when it will happen. I'll make someone the centre of my life and I will do literally _anything_ to keep them from leaving. But then this... this sense of betrayal, this _anger_ comes out of me, and I never know if it's justified — the love or the hate. I can't trust my own perception. I need someone to tell me what's real, because I can't do it for myself. So — tell me. Who am I? What am I supposed to do?"

It's getting hard to breathe again. Her cheeks burn and her eyes leak, and she's painfully aware of how unattractive and needy and _crazy_ she's coming across. How she's neither a beautifully tragic broken bird nor a scary sexy supervillain. Just an almost-thirty woman giving off an unconcealable aura of _fucked up_.

Or maybe she's faking it for attention. She flinches, a part of her still expecting to be told, _always so dramatic_.

Instead, Akopian leads her through a mindfulness exercise: naming five yellow things in the room (her dress, a chair, the nail polish Heather did for her, daffodils in a vase, the sun setting out the window), five sounds (her breathing, Akopes' breathing, passing cars, soft wind, her heart in her ears), five sensations (her hands clenched tight, her leg shaking involuntarily, her hair touching her neck, the chair at her back, her heart her heart her heart her heart her heart).

The exercise helps a bit. But what's more comforting is the doctor sitting across from her, seeing her break down and not running for her life. _You're paying her_, Rebecca snaps at herself, her airway constricting again. But her body is too exhausted to launch into a full-fledged panic attack. Akopian's seen the real her and doesn't hate her; at least there's that. Even if Rebecca has to pay her for it.

"Rebecca," says the doctor, once Rebecca's breathing evenly again. "I can't tell you who you are or what you feel. You're the authority of your own experience, and the only one who can decide what feels right is you."

Rebecca searches for the words, struggling to find sentience creeping amongst the echoes of anxiety. She speaks slowly. "I know I'm supposed be myself. But I don't actually understand what that means. Like, I polish up the version of myself I present to the world, but when I look inside for who I really am... I can't find anything under the polish. It's like I'm nothing." Her voice shakes, but she looks Akopian straight in the eyes. "You can give me whatever diagnosis. I'll take whatever medication — I just want to be fixed."

"Rebecca," says Akopian gently, "as empty as you may sometimes feel, I can definitely assure you that you are _not_ nothing. Maybe there's a lot about yourself you have left to figure out — that's okay. But you're passionate, caring, hardworking — and, to be frank, the most stubborn person who has ever walked into this office. There's no medication that's going to change your personality — if you want to change your life, it's going to have to come from your own choices. It's going to be work — but you don't strike me as someone who gives up on hard work."

Rebecca nods hesitantly. After a moment she says, "When I read those things about BPD, it hurt because I related to it, not because I didn't. Do you think I have that — a disordered personality?"

"It's more of an emotional regulation disorder." As the psychologist describes the tendency to get overwhelmed by day to day life, Rebecca finds her heart sinking and her head nodding along. Feeling like a raw nerve, yep. Constantly overstimulated and emotionally exposed, check. Wanting the feelings to stop by any means necessary... no comment.

"So, you think I have it then," she says, as though she's just stating an objective fact and is totally not terrified by this.

"Well," says Akopian, "why don't we go through the criteria. The real criteria — no bunny boiling." The older woman smiles slightly, "Rebecca, even if your ex did have a bunny, you're the last person I'd expect to harm it. Breaking and entering, maybe. But in a theoretical bunny heist, you're more likely to bond with it and end up with 50 bunnies than a soup. Not that I'm advocating any heists, to be clear." Rebecca can't quite tell if that last part is a joke.

The blonde smiles despite herself. Hey, if she really is disordered and dysregulated and diagnosable with relationship napalm, she can always settle down with a fuckton of bunnies.

As the doctor runs through the criteria, Rebecca's heart clunks in her chest. Fear of abandonment. Sudden mood swings. Impulse control issues. Emptiness. It's like someone's written a biography about her. More specifically, about the parts of her life she's been desperately trying to leave behind.

After scoring _uh huh_ for the first eight symptoms, Doctor Akopian reads the last one. "Suicidal ideation or attempts."

Rebecca's throat closes up.

"No," she says. Then: "I mean, not really." Then: "Just stupid attention-seeking stuff."

Rebecca looks in her dark eyes for judgement but doesn't find it. "Needing attention isn't stupid," Akopian says softly. "Feeling connected to others is a human need. If you felt so alone you were thinking of hurting yourself, that's an indication that your needs weren't being met."

"No, really though, it was pathetic — I mean, my mom still makes fun of it." She laughs, but Akopian doesn't. She clears her throat, says more quietly, "Okay, so maybe it wasn't the most supportive environment."

"That's what we call emotional invalidation — when someone is taught that their feelings aren't real or don't matter. Ironically, it often makes those emotions even more intense; it's hard to deal with feelings when you can't acknowledge them. But eventually there's only so much you can ignore."

"I didn't want to die." Rebecca catches herself chipping at her nails, flecks of sunlight scattered at her feet. When she speaks her voice is quiet, but it still feels too loud in the calm room. _Too dramatic._ She forces it out anyway because she doesn't know what else to do. "I just wanted the pain to stop."

Doctor Akopian leans forward, and Rebecca is surprised to see real concern in her eyes. "If you ever feel like that again, _please_ call me. Or at least call someone. You don't ever have to go through that alone."

"I don't really feel like that anymore." The cliffside flashes through her mind. "I mean, I do sometimes. But I always pull through, so it can't be that bad."

"You don't have to get sicker to deserve to get better. You deserve a life you want to live."

Rebecca nods. Her vision is blurry again.

"Rebecca, listen to me. You don't have to prove what you're feeling. Just tell me. I'll believe you."

"Thank you," says Rebecca, and she means it, even if she isn't sure she deserves it. She tries to smile. "So I guess I really do have this disorder, huh?"

"It does seem like you fit the criteria. But BPD is very treatable with proper therapy and a good support system. You have a_ good_ prognosis."

Rebecca nods, swallows.

"Rebecca." Akopian leans closer to her. "In the months I've known you, I've seen you do a lot of impulsive things. I've also seen you genuinely want to do right by the people around you. And although you've sometimes run from your problems, I've also seen you make the decision to come back and face them. You've displayed kindness and courage, and that's also a part of who you are. It's okay to make mistakes and learn from them to make better choices. Those choices make you who you are. Not any psychiatric label."

"Okay." Rebecca grimaces. "You know, for almost thirty years I've known something was wrong. But this makes it seem... I don't know. Real."

"Your feelings have always been real. Now you can work on acknowledging them in healthier ways."

Rebecca can't quite bring herself to meet her eyes. "Does that mean I have to break up with Valencia?"

Akopian is quiet for a moment. "That's up to you. BPD doesn't mean you can't have healthy relationships — but it will take more work, especially early in your recovery. Again, I can't tell you what to do, but I think it's best to be honest with her — and with yourself — about your needs, and to watch out if you find yourself repeating old patterns. You're a loving person and you deserve love — but you also deserve to give yourself the same love and compassion you extend to others."

The doctor continues, "It's like bell hooks says — knowing how to spend time with yourself is central to the art of loving. If you can accept yourself for who you are, you can be with other people without using them as a means for escape."

_Damn it, hooks, you were supposed to be on my side._

But, as stressful as this day has been, Rebecca feels a crack of light break through the void inside her.

Maybe Akopes gets it after all.

**x**

This should be the climax. The part where her life either gets better or falls apart completely.

But when she drives home, gets ready for bed, and then lays there under the covers in the dark, nothing is different. She's still herself. She waits for sleep to cover her, and eventually it does. The next morning, she wakes up with no motivation to get out of bed.

Her life stretches out in front of her, a vast, blank expanse.

She doesn't know what to do with all this future.

When she thinks about what to do next — even the smallest things, like going into the kitchen and facing Heather across the breakfast table — her heart hurts in a literal, spasm-y way, as though it doesn't quite fit inside her chest. She turns toward her pillow, away from the light, and tries not to think.

That day, Rebecca ignores her phone except to call in sick to work (_not technically a lie, haha_). She holes up in her room watching Netflix and Youtube, only emerging to use the bathroom and cobble together depression meals.

In the evening, Heather taps at her door to invite her out for Chinese donuts. Rebecca declines.

"Hey, um, are you doing okay?" says Heather.

"Yeah," mumbles Rebecca, unsure whether or not it's true.

"Okay. I'm here if you need anything. Seriously."

When Valencia calls, she doesn't pick up the phone.

_Sick in bed_, she texts.

Valencia texts back a sad face and a heart. Then: _I'll bring soup_.

_Maybe in a couple days. Feeling contagious._

Lights off, she scrolls the internet for hours. It's not a comfort, exactly. More of a way to ignore her existence. Behind the screen, she's stripped of time and place and identity, filling her mind with whatever scrolls before her. Sitting up in the dark at three in the morning, she Google image searches Marla from _Fight Club_, Amy from _Gone Girl_. Maybe she can lean into this idea of "crazy" she's spent so long avoiding. Could she pull off Rosamund Pike's haircut?

That's not what BPD is, Akopian said. But Rebecca has always seen herself through narratives.

Except now. She doesn't know what story this is supposed to be.

She looks up "crazy in love" and somehow, like always, everything leads back to music videos. A male rock star sings about how he likes it when a girl gets crazy in bed. (_Do women like it too?_ she can't help but wonder. What can she offer to avoid being replaced?)

Courtney Love growls, _I'm the one with no soul_, feral with how much she doesn't need anyone. But then in another song, she sings, _I'm dying, please / I want to, I need to be / under your skin_, this once-strong woman wanting (needing) to be close to someone so badly she's willing to — wants to — dissolve into them completely.

Alanis Morissett laments, _All these thoughts in my head aren't my own / wreaking havok / I'm too exhausting to be loved_. Rebecca closes the computer, unable to listen any more.

The next day she wakes up at 1:33 in the afternoon with a sour taste in her mouth, having fallen asleep sometime after sunrise, laptop still open on the bed. Half-groggy, half-panicked, she paces around her room, needing to do _something_ though she doesn't know what. She goes for a drive to the store and finds her hand reaching for a carton of drugstore hair dye — fuck diagnosis, she can be whoever she wants, starting now.

At home, she darkens her hair in the washroom, craving that bottle of dessert wine Heather's put away somewhere. Though it's probably for the best she can't find it; she already feels out of sync with the world, as though she's in a dream or a memory, watching herself without knowing what she'll do.

_Dissociation_, Akopian would say. _A response to overwhelming emotion_.

She rejects this feeling. She respectfully declines this diagnosis.

Her hands look very far away.

When she washes out the dye and sees her new chocolate curls fall around her face, she feels better for a moment.

Then she realizes Valencia might not like it, and her insides crumple. She sits on the bathroom floor gripping her knees and rocking. Five colours five sounds five senses.

Is this how love works when you're borderline? You find someone who makes you happy, then spend the rest of your life worrying about how you'll ruin everything?

When she gets back to her room, Valencia is phoning again. She debates answering, floats slightly outside herself and waits to see what she'll do. The screen goes dark before she can make up her mind.

**x**

The third day, she wakes up at 5:26 a.m. still feeling like garbage. On the nightstand, her phone blinks with unread messages. She slips it into the pocket of her hoodie without reading them.

She decides to go for a walk.

As she steps outside into the brisk dawn, the neighbourhood is quiet, even the birds barely awake. Above her, the palm trees are still in greyscale, their dark hands splayed against the dark sky.

Her breath catches when, a few blocks from her apartment, she realizes she's forgotten her iPod. _Stupid_. For a moment, she debates going back for it. But something is different. It takes her a moment to place what's changed: she feels okay.

Not good. But her thoughts are quieter than they've been in days. For the time being, she can tolerate them.

She keeps walking.

It feels like a canyon has opened in her chest. But amongst the void, there's something else. A faint, hopeful flicker. That same one she felt in Akopian's office.

Like now that she knows what she's dealing with, she can work to get better.

Not just numb her feelings, or hide them, or force them down until they bubbles up again — really get better.

She can try. She has to try. It's the only chance she's got.

She thinks of Valencia, but also of Heather, and Paula, and Darryl. How her life now, for all the mistakes she's made, is still better than she ever imagined it. Better than the dream job, better than finally pleasing her mother, better than marrying Robert or Josh or any idealized figure — because in those fantasies, she was never really herself. It was a role she played — played to perfection, but still a role. They loved her despite — no, _because_ they didn't really know her. Even in her fantasies, she was never loved for herself. She was always, at her core, alone.

But if what Doctor Akopian says is true, maybe she doesn't have to be.

Maybe she doesn't have to spend her whole life worrying she's not good enough. Because that's all she wants: to be enough. To be as worthy of care as any other person.

She thinks of the people in the support group. She's spend the last few days obsessing over how the world sees people with BPD. But what about how people with BPD see themselves? What makes the punk girl, who seemed to hate everything, willing to drop her cynicism long enough to go to a support group to talk about her feelings? What made the shy woman, her movements so hesitant she seemed to feel guilty about occupying a body, work up the courage to reach out for help? How do people who are so sensitive to hostility will themselves to get up in the morning, day after day, and try to build a life despite the fear of their own brains betraying them, and despite knowing the ignorance and stigma the world might throw at them on top of that?

Those stories are real, too. She doesn't know how they end, and they don't necessarily make a lot of narrative sense. But they deserve to be told nonetheless.

She wants to see where her story goes.

Walking beneath the shadows of California oaks, the day is quiet except for her footsteps, except for the ordinary wind. In a sky bare of dream ghosts, the new light is painful and shining and clear.

A lot has changed in these three days, and yet it hasn't. She still loves her life and the people in it. As much as the diagnosis hurts and worries her, if it will help her hold onto this life, she'll take it. She'll take it all.

She knows what she's capable of when she feels unloved. But she also knows, when she wants something, she'll do whatever it takes to make it possible.

And goddam, she wants to live.


	8. this kind of in between place

Paula is the first one she tells.

Sun stinging in her eyes, Rebecca inhales a long breath of the chilly air before hitting the speed dial icon. _Paula Proctor (Emergency Contact)_.

The phone rings once. Then again, again, again, its trills punctuated by the tapdance of Rebecca's heart in her throat. Finally it goes to voicemail.

Rebecca opens her mouth, but no words come. She hangs up, a stone sinking in her stomach.

Then: oh. Ungodly hour of the morning. Right.

She pecks at the keyboard, searches for the right tone. _Hey mama. Sorry I ghosted you. Give me a buzz?_ (Bee emoji.)

Ugh, delete._ Just got diagnosed with a personality disorder. SO WEIRD, RIGHT?_ No, even worse.

Finally, she settles on _Hey Paula. Sorry I've been out of touch. I'd really like to talk to you. Call me?_ (Heart emoji, cookie emoji.)

Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she walks the quiet street towards home. Slowly the day climbs the horizon, and Rebecca pledges, this time, to be a part of it.

**x**

But for now, she's exhausted. As Rebecca climbs under the covers, she doesn't expect sleep to come, but a couple hours later, the vibration of her phone pulls her out of a fitful nap. Untangling herself from the loving arms (claws?) of Ruth Gator Ginsburg, she reaches for the device, her best friend's name glowing on the screen.

"Mhhm, Paula, I was having the weirdest dream. I was a mermaid, and then I was a popstar, and Poseidon wanted me to come back the ocean. Also I think Ray Bradburry was there?"

"Definitely a movie I would watch, but more importantly, Rebecca, where have you been? I've been calling and calling you."

"I know. I'm sorry." She sits up, brushes the bleariness from her eyes. On the other end of the line, Rebecca can hear the sizzle of something frying, Scott and the kids chattering words she can't make out. Paula shushes them.

"Thanks for checking in, Paula. It means a lot."

"Of course — Tommy, get that syrup bottle out of your pants — Scott, stop laughing, you're encouraging him — you know I'm always here for you. But cookie, you can't just drop off the earth like that. Where have you been?"

"I was having a bit of a mental health crisis. Slash identity crisis. Slash... crisis not otherwise specified. See, I got this new diagnosis—"

"Ow! Hot stove hot stove — sorry, Rebecca, what was that?"

"Should I call back in a bit...?"

"No, Rebecca, I have been trying to get in touch for days, don't you _dare_ hang up on me now." Scott says something Rebecca can't make out. "Hang on, Scott's taking over pancake duty, just a sec."

A sound of shuffling and a door closing. Then Paula says, "Okay. Cookie, now tell me everything."

And Rebecca does. Or at least, she tries. A part of her keeps hoping Paula will interrupt — will tell her she's fine, that Akopian is being ridiculous, that there's nothing wrong with her. But Paula listens, uncharacteristically quiet, and Rebecca isn't sure what that means.

Yet the truth is, even if Paula were to disagree with her, this diagnosis feels… different. Like Rebecca's learned something about herself, and now it's not possible to unlearn it again.

Rebecca hesitates, then flinches once _borderline personality disorder_ is out of her mouth. Thinks of _Fatal Attraction_ and _Single White Female_, of the roughness of her hospital gown, of every guy on a message board saying, _my ex-girlfriend is crazy, total borderline_.

Her eyes burn, thinking of Paula seeing her that way. Thinking of losing her best friend.

But Paula's voice is calm as she says, "Okay," and waits for Rebecca to elaborate on what the diagnosis means.

Rebecca explains, at first using words like "dysregulation" and "dissociation." Then the clinical terms fall away. "It's like… this constant worry I'm not good enough. That everyone will give up on me and leave. And when I start thinking that way, I get overwhelmed, and, and impulsive. It's a headspace where I can lash out at others, and it's a place where I can hurt myself."

After a pause, Paula says, "Rebecca, I need you to tell me if you're thinking about hurting yourself now."

"No." Rebecca lets out a sharp breath. "No, definitely not, thank god. But it's a feeling I never want to have again. So I'm going to therapy, I'm putting in the work to get better — and I'm going to get better, because now that I know what I have, and now that I have a support system... I think I can do this, Paula. Finally."

"I know you can, cookie. And you are good enough." On the other end, Paula lets out a short laugh even though her voice is slightly choked. "I mean, hey, that's what you showed me, right? With stubbornness and friendship, anything's possible. And because of that I've got final exams coming up, so, thanks for that."

Rebecca laughs. "Combination law school slash therapy homework sesh tonight? Though I can't promise I won't cry on your shoulder."

"Ha, ditto. This Fed Courts textbook tends to bore me to tears."

"Oh, Fed Courts! I loved that unit, let's chat about it tonight!"

"Didn't you hate law school?"

"I mean, yeah, I hated the material, but I loved the studying."

There's a moment of quiet, and Rebecca is sure she can telepathically sense Paula shaking her head. "You are one unique woman, you know that?"

"That is the nicest way anyone's ever put that sentiment."

"I'll see you tonight. And Rebecca? Thanks for calling me. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks mama. Proud of you too."

As Rebecca leans back on her alligator, phone still cradled in her hand, the day no longer feels empty. She's still tired. But she she's ready to get out of bed.

**x**

She clears the dirty dishes that have accumulated in her room, brings them into the kitchen where she puts on a pot of coffee, then serves herself a cup with milk and sugar. Okay, mostly just a cup _of_ milk and sugar. But she's trying to practice self-love, and if her coffee isn't approximately the flavor palate of coffee ice cream, is she really loving herself?

She leaves the rest of the pot for Heather, black and extra strong — a vile, bitter fate no one deserves, in Rebecca's opinion, but Heather claims to like it. Though Rebecca can swear she's seen her roommate sneak maple syrup into the intimidating brew, so she sets out the bottle just in case.

**x**

Heather finds Rebecca in the kitchen, her eyes red-rimmed and a glass of milk cradled in her hands. The sugar jar sits open in front of her, and she can't quite read the emotion on Rebecca's face, except that there seems to be a lot of it.

"Hey, long time no see. Uh, you okay?"

"I think so. Made you some coffee."

"Cool, thanks. You feeling better?"

"I am actually. Hey, Heather, can I ask you a question? You studied psychology, right?"

"Yeah, same semester as Korean, aircraft physics, and men's field hockey — my athletics of sex and gender professor argued for my right to take it. Doctor Goddess, she's great."

"Can I ask your opinion on borderline personality disorder?" Rebecca winces. "Like, specifically, in relation to me."

Heather pulls out a chair, sits down across from her. Chooses her words carefully. "Okay, Rebecca, do you want my honest opinion?"

Rebecca nods.

"A diagnosis is great if it helps you, but it isn't, like, the objective sum truth of who you are. If you want to talk to your doctor about why you do certain things, psychology can be a helpful way to gain insight, but like… I don't want to pathologize you. I just want to be your friend."

Rebecca smiles, her eyes still red. "Even if I'm totally bonkerballs?"

"Hey," says Heather, squeezing her hand. "We don't use words like bonkerballs in this house."

**x**

As Heather packs up her backpack, Rebecca goes to put away the milk, declares it as, "Part of my new, proactive mission to get my life together."

"You know, most roommates just put their stuff back in the fridge without having to annou... never mind, progress is progress," says Heather. "See you and Paula tonight." As she heads for the door, she adds before leaving, "Oh yeah, a delivery guy left something for you. I put it in the fridge."

As Rebecca pulls the slightly loose handle (she really needs a new fridge), she spots a plastic container that she hadn't noticed before on her shelf, a pink post-it note stuck to it. Inside, matzo balls float amidst verdant sprigs of dill in a golden broth.

_"Hi Rebecca,_

_"I hear this is the thing to do when someone you care about gets sick, and I care about you, so get unsick, okay? Also I know you like matzo balls, and I tried to make them myself but they exploded into this horrible bread disaster — wait, no, stop writing, erase that part. Bread disasters are not cute. Anyway, I hope you feel better soon. Take care of yourself, okay? Also, call me._

_"And then sign it 'Vallencia.' One L, like the Spanish word for brave. Or like, you know, the oranges. Come on, you must know Valencia oranges, right? Ugh. Okay. Anyway, did you get that? Okay bye."_

Rebecca takes a long sip of her coffee (okay, vaguely coffee-flavoured sugar-milk, but caffeine is bad for anxiety, so, again, self-care. Or at least harm reduction). She picks up the phone.

**x**

Valencia Perez is losing her mind.

It is 7:03 A.M. on the dot — she's checked her phone about a billion times today, so she knows. Standing in the shower, she lathers jasmine shampoo into her hair with unnecessary aggression.

She's just saying, how hard is it to return a text? Sure, Rebecca's sick, but she's still her girlfriend, right? Okay, they're not Facebook official, but they've posted Instagram photos with hearts and roses, and yeah, maybe that's what girl friends do, but the last weeks they've spent together have definitely been what_ girlfriends_ do, and as strange as female friendships may be, that was well beyond the realm of cutesy kissing, and _damn it Rebecca, just tell me what's going on._

She steps out into her bathrobe and towels off, still literally and figuratively steaming. As she sits down at her desk, attempting to pencil the coming week into her to-do list, thoughts of Rebecca keep breaking her focus. Her eraser drums against the paper, a staccato punk rock rhythm. Her thoughts race, almost like lyrics—

But she can't seem to sustain any anger at Rebecca. She drops the pencil, rubs her temples and inhales then exhales slowly past the lump in her throat.

Okay, fine. She's worried.

She checks her phone again, though, as expected, there's nothing. Well, likes from Instagram, but none of them are from Rebecca so, for once, she doesn't care. She scrolls Rebecca's feed for clues, but there haven't been any updates in days. Setting down the phone, she makes a conscious effort to unclench her jaw. Breathe. Be one with the universe. The stupid, stupid universe that won't let her know what the hell is going on with her girlfriend.

If Rebecca wants to break up with her... it will hurt like hell, but given time, carbs, and indie rock, Valencia knows she'll be okay eventually. But if Rebecca doesn't want to be part of her life, or worse, if something happened to Rebecca—

Her phone buzzes against her desk like an extremely vocal mosquito and she snaps it up, too agitated to keep her voice party planner sweet. "What?"

"Valencia?"

The tension rushes out of her spine and into her throat, tightening her airway around her words. "Rebecca? Where have you been? I left you like a million messages."

"I know, I'm so sorry. Thanks for the soup, it was really sweet of you."

"Yeah, but where _are_ you? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, thanks, sorry, it wasn't you, I just — I had this doctor's appointment and got a new diagnosis and freaked out. But you're right, I shouldn't have disappeared. I won't do that again."

"Yeah," says Valencia. She swallows, hearing the bitterness in her own voice. More softly, she says, "I'm glad you're okay. You scared me, Rebecca. And I get that you were scared too. But you can tell me things. I… I want us to have that kind of relationship, where we can be up front with each other — you're the first person I've met where I've felt like that's possible."

Her heart is pounding. She feels like she's undressing, but more than that, beyond clothes and down to her very personality, all her flaws and insecurities exposed to the air. Asking Rebecca if she likes her anyway.

"I want that too," says Rebecca.

_Then why didn't you tell me what was going on?_ Valencia swallows the question like bile, leaving her throat burning.

Rebecca explains the diagnosis, a term Valencia's never heard before, and she takes notes, trying to understand. None of the symptoms Rebecca lists surprise her — obsessiveness, mood swings, abandonment issues — but they do make her chest ache, thinking of Rebecca going through that alone.

"So, yeah, that's what I have." Rebecca finishes. "It's treatable — don't Google it though, I made that mistake and freaked out. There's tons of misinformation online."

"No, of course, I would never," says Valencia, crossing out "google" at the top of the page.

"Like, a lot of sites don't say it, but most people get better with treatment. I mean, I might not even meet the criteria in six months. But… I could also have it all my life, and I get that it can be difficult to date someone who hasn't worked through their issues…" She swallows. "So what I'm saying is, if you want to break up, I'd understand. I wouldn't hold it against you."

"Do _you_ want to break up?"

"No. But if I've learned anything, it's that relationships can't just be about what one person wants. If you stay with me because you feel obligated, or you feel sorry for me, or worried about what I'll do—"

"Okay, Rebecca — stop. I don't do pity. Or subtlety. And after the last 15 years, I _certainly_ don't do relationships I don't actually want to be in. I like you, okay? You're smart, and you're funny, and we get each other, and you're kind of weird but in this way that's actually really cool, this way that makes everyone feel like they can be themselves around you and like that's okay. You having a health condition doesn't change any of the things that make me want to be with you."

Rebecca is quiet for a moment. "Thanks," she says. Then with more determination, "I want to be with you too. And you're right, mental illness is a health condition — I've been beating myself up about being 'crazy' the last few days, but your attitude is much more enlightened."

"Hey, I'm all about enlightenment. Also, I watched some YouTube videos about mental health."

(Truth be told, she watched them after befriending Rebecca, wanting to understand. A wave of shame still rises in her stomach as she remembers how she spoke to her on the party bus. _Crazy. Not normal._)

"I don't mind things getting… intense," says Valencia. "I mean, god knows our friendship's been complicated, and it's not like I don't have my own baggage. But you don't have to protect me from what you're going through. I want to be there for you. Because that's what girlfriends do. And we are girlfriends… right?"

"Yeah." Rebecca's voice strengthens. "Yeah. We're girlfriends."

"I'm coming over, okay? And I'm bringing _Lilo & Stitch_."

"I'll get donuts from the Chinese place. I mean, I know you don't eat them, but we can smell them together."

"Actually, I think I'll have one."

"Yeah, do it! You only yolo once, right?"

Valencia bites her tongue, but she smiles. "Right," she says to her apparently-born-40 girlfriend. Diagnosis or not, she's definitely still Rebecca.

**x**

That day, Valencia skips her spin class to be with Rebecca. Despite her girlfriend's advice, she can't resist Googleing, and it does freak her out. A lot of scary scary sexy lady movie characters — who are kind of hot, okay, she can accept that aspect of her attraction now, but none of these glamorous supervillainnesses seem safe to let into your house, much less your love life.

But it only takes a half-second to remember that her anxious, musical-theater-loving girlfriend, pretty and clever and lovely as she is, is about as far from a Hollywood sociopath as it's possible to be.

That's not the part that worries her. Harder to shake are the personal accounts of self-harm, suicide attempts, loneliness. Thinking of Rebecca going through that, and all alone. She tears up, wishes she could take those feelings away from her, take them into herself if need be.

But all she can do is drive to Rebecca's, armed with one of her girlfriend's favourite movies, and be with her. When Rebecca answers the door, Valencia pulls her into a tight embrace, her face buried in Rebecca's hair where the shorter woman can't see the quiver in her lips.

When Valencia stands back, she smiles almost flawlessly. "It's good to see you again. Hey, you dyed your hair."

**x**

That evening, the Gurl Group gathers in Rebecca's room, sits on her bed and catches up. Heather, Paula, and Valencia sip from a bottle of rosé, while Rebecca opts for another glass of sugar milk.

"I'm already feeling emotional, and Ashkenazi Jews are not renowned for handling our alcohol."

"Aren't you also not renowned for handling lactose?" says Heather.

"Yes, but this is self-care. Now, I am going to drink this glass of milk if it kills me."

"Or you could just, like, take some Lactaid," says Heather, handing her a packet from her pocket.

"Less dramatic gravitas but yes, good point."

The four of them chat, commiserate, and even end up laughing and joking. Although an anxious electricity hangs in the air and Rebecca notices her friends looking at her more carefully than usual, slowly the tension eases on her lungs and shoulders. Though her eyes still water, it's hard to tell whether it's from stress or laughter.

She has friends. She definitely, finally has friends. And even if not a lot has been making sense in her life lately, this is one thing she knows to be true.

Heather talks about the latest adventures of Abandoned Dessert Wine, who is now in a scandalous love triangle with Ruth Gator Ginsburg and Rebecca's giant fish, amassing a sizable number of followers for Heather and Hector's new YouTube series.

"It started as a film class project, but I actually really love it," says Heather. "We're making enough on it that I can quit Miss Douche and actually use my voice for something creative, instead of promoting useless and potentially harmful genital cleansers. It's been a classic coming of age journey."

"Wow," says Rebecca. "There's been a lot going on that I was not paying attention to."

The other three nod, a chorus of hesitant "Mm"s and a "Yeah, I'd say that's a fair assessment," from Heather.

Paula opens up about law school stress and imposter syndrome. "My classmates are mostly these young, wealthy kids who have way more time to study than I do, and even though I'm top of my class I still feel like I don't belong there. I don't know, maybe I'm just not meant to be a 'real' lawyer."

"Hey," says Rebecca, putting a hand on her knee. "I went to Harvard, and —" she feels the room stifle a groan, "—no, listen, listen. I'm saying that's not important. It's one thing to know the law in an abstract way, but Paula, you don't just know the law, you care about it, about your clients, about justice. Paula, you know _life_. You're raising two kids, you grew up taking care of your dad, and you're top of your class? I went into law because my mom made me, but you're in it because it's your dream. You fought your way to get here. That's as real as lawyers come."

Paula squeezes her hand, green eyes beaming. "Thanks, cookie."

Rebecca swallows past the stone in her throat, folds her hands into her lap. "I want to tell you guys something." She clutches a throw pillow to her torso, grips it tightly as that out-of-body sensation begins to vibrate through her. "It's, um. It's bad."

She isn't sure if she's doing the right thing, but the anxiety won't stop buzzing in her ears, and she needs to get it out of her. In halting phrases she tells the story of Robert, interspersed with "umm"s. Heather rubs her back and Valencia takes her hand. Rebecca stares down at her pillow, unable to look at their faces.

"So, yeah, then I ended up in the hospital. And then just… numb. Until I moved here."

When she forces herself to look up, her friends' eyes are wide and creased with worry, their brows furrowed. _Fuck, I can't believe I just told them that, look what you've done Rebecca, stupid —_

"That is so screwed up," says Valencia, and Rebecca's heart crumples. Valencia continues, anger lacing hotly through her voice, "I can't believe he got away with that. That exploitative asshole. You were his student."

Wait. _What?_

"I would have burned down his apartment too. Or at least, I would have wanted to. God, that _creep_."

Valencia's shoulders shake. Her hand in Rebecca's is burning hot. Her other is clenched in a fist, shellacked nails appearing to dig into her palms.

"I can't believe it. I can't _believe_ he took advantage of you like that."

"I mean, I should have known better," says Rebecca. "I thought… I thought it was cool, honestly, when it was happening. Like I was in a movie."

"It wasn't a movie, though. It was your life." Valencia swallows. Her face is dark, eyes flashing. "You can try to act out a role even if it feels wrong, and tell yourself you're just doing it for aesthetics, or for coolness, that you're this exciting fictional character and it doesn't really mean anything, but it _does._ You're a real person, and you were vulnerable. And he knew that. He knew."

Rebecca embraces her, and Valencia leans into her, though her body stays tense. Rebecca feels the dampness of tears against her neck as Valencia's shoulders storm. Valencia, who has always been so strong and confident, so movie-star ideal, so untouched by ordinary human insecurity. Valencia who is shaking in her arms, just a person. A person she loves.

This isn't all about Robert anymore.

"It's okay," she says, running her hand down V's back. "I mean, it wasn't okay, not what happened. That was so far from okay. But it didn't ruin me. I'm here. We're all here. No one can take that away."

"Just promise you won't disappear like that again," says Valencia through sobs. "I don't want to lose you."

"I'm not going anwhere," says Rebecca. "Promise."

The four women sit together, comforting Valencia, holding on to each other.

"And… we're okay?" Rebecca says, looking to Heather and Paula. "You're not freaked out?"

"Oh, Rebecca," says Paula, hugging her. "We're all just glad that you're okay. And that you're out of that situation, and getting help."

"Definitely," says Heather. "Also, if this guy ever bothers you again, I do have an ax. Just saying."

Rebecca laughs, and then Valencia does too, with a little hiccup. And then they're all laughing, not necessarily at the joke, but because it's such a relief to finally have everything out in the open, all of them together and overwhelmed but okay. Finally okay.

Gradually Valencia's breathing slows and her shoulders still, and Rebecca's heartrate returns to normal.

And after, their friends are still there.

**x**

Maybe "stable" isn't the right word for the next few months. But maybe "stable-ish." It's one of the most difficult times in both Rebecca and Valencia's lives, and yet both feel more okay than they have in a long time.

Rebecca works hard at therapy. So does Valencia. While Rebecca attends DBT with Doctor Shin, Valencia is at an office across town (neither of the Akopians, since that would violate patient care ethics, obviously), learning about intuitive eating and emotional flashbacks as she works on a sense of self-worth that doesn't depend on external approval.

For as long as she can remember, she's been holding her smile like a stretch, running through the poses of yoga, Instagram, and alpha-girlhood. Locking away the lonely, hurt girl who craves approval but doesn't always get social cues, trapping her in a carapace of grinning, glittering armour. Becoming the type of woman everyone wanted to be, someone who controlled herself so thoroughly she'd never need anything from anyone. Becoming a woman no one could hurt.

But after that conversation in Rebecca's bed, something had shattered. All the insecurity, that sense of distance and differentness, of wanting to understand others and be understood by them, but also the fierce desire to protect the person she loved… it flooded through her, and she felt so embarrassingly needy. But as she and Rebecca held onto each other, the panic eased, and a strange sense of closeness crept in.

Rebecca was okay. Valencia was okay. Utterly overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted, yes, but with people who cared for her, the real her. She had spent so many years encased in this glinting, inert shell, and finally it had broken, the outside world overwhelming, bright, alive. And she was a part of it.

So she starts therapy, wanting to be better, not just for Rebecca, but for herself. Because she's starting to think that maybe she deserves it — that she doesn't have to limit herself to gorgeous and sophisticated and popular. She can actually be… like, happy.

When work gets stressful, or she accidentally says something rude and her friends get annoyed with her (apparently you're not supposed to tell other women they need to pluck their eyebrows. Who knew?), she no longer turns to a cleanse or crash diet to prove to herself she at least has control of _something._ She grits her teeth when it comes time to apologize, but she does it anyway. When she eats a donut, her bloodstream races as her heart runs a marathon in her chest like it's trying to burn off the calories all on its own, and she fights the urge to hyperventilate. But each time she gets through it, and each week she goes back to therapy a little less afraid of herself.

She makes a second Instagram account, this one for her photography. Not to market herself, but to share the world as she sees it. Cups of boba with friends, the sun lighting the leaves of Galster park where she walks to clear her head after appointments. Sometimes a post about her day, her face unfiltered, holding onto the moments she feels comfortable in her skin.

It has barely a dozen followers, mostly IRL friends, in contrast to the thousands on her professional account. But she's prouder of this one.

**x**

Rebecca's insides feel tangled. She's proud of Valencia, and happy for her. When she cheers her on, she means it.

But Rebecca's used to being the best at whatever she tries, whenever she _really_ tries. And this is the hardest she's tried to do anything. But though she fills out half a dozen therapy workbooks a week, downloads every mindfulness app she can get her hands on, can lecture at length about Linehan et al.'s contribution to BPD literature and Thomas Fuch's weird German philosophical theories, attends group, individual, and even overcomes her fear of horses for equine therapy... applying the techniques is different than theorizing. When it comes to tests, she's always been better at the written than the practical.

It's one thing to write in her workbook about the value of accepting emotions without judging them. It's harder to "value what your emotions have to say" and "not judge yourself" when you've slept badly, your girlfriend isn't texting because she's late at work (or maybe mad at you, or dead, or so mad at you she died), and now you're pretty sure you overfed and killed your roommate's starfish because you're a contagious plague in the form of a woman and everything you care for suffers and now everyone will find that out and abandon you.

Hypothetically speaking.

The starfish is the last straw — she wants to drink until her mind goes black, or pick up the phone and demand why Valencia hasn't texted, or abuse the new prescription Akopian has started her on, or scream and scream and never stop screaming.

Instead she sits down on the kitchen floor and bursts into tears.

Between grounding exercises and the post-panic adrenaline crash, she calms down enough to take a two hour stress-nap. By the time she wakes up, the despair has ebbed into a dull sadness. Valencia has left a message on her phone, apologizing for being late and asking if they still have dinner plans. In the kitchen, Estrella twitches — alive, if barely.

Rebecca's body goes limp. Everything is okay. It's a victory. But mostly it feels embarrassing.

"How was your day?" asks Valencia that evening, radiant with another successful day at work and therapy, chopsticking Chinese takeout because Rebecca was too exhausted to cook.

"It was alright," says Rebecca, and changes the subject to Valencia's day.

The next evening, she paces around Dr. Shin's office, unable to stay seated. "I study this therapy stuff for hours a day and I still keep spiraling. It feels like mental health is a game and I'm losing."

"Rebecca," he's saying, "you recognized your emotions, resisted the urge to act impulsively, self-soothed, and then assessed the situation in a calmer state of mind. That shows therapy is working. You're using the skills."

"But it isn't working fast enough." She twists and untwists a lock of her hair, aware the action would be charming if she wasn't flushed, frantic, and wild-eyed, more frantic goblin dissociation woman than manic pixie dream girl. "I'm really trying, Dr. Shin. You have no idea how hard I'm trying."

"I do see your efforts, Rebecca."

"Then why aren't I fixed?" She sits down, fiddling with her hands. "I mean, that's how it's supposed to work, right — you find the right therapy, you do the work, you take the meds, and you get better. But I'm working my ass off, and the last few weeks alone I've had enough episodes to call it a season."

The doctor leans forward, his soft eyes holding her gaze. "Rebecca, therapy takes time. You can't just Joyce Carol Oates it. It's about gradually changing the patterns in how you respond to problems, rather than never having problems again."

"Yeah, I know, I know." She sighs. "Is it bad I just want to get to the part where everything's easy? Is that a borderline thing?"

He chuckles. "I think that's a person thing."

"I know, just…" She folds her hands on the desk in front of her, takes a breath. "Listen, I know that being in a relationship doesn't fix everything. But shouldn't it at least be less stressful than when I was obsessing over Josh, or Greg, or… you know? I just want to be healthy, but if I'm still having so many problems in relationships…" her voice comes out quiet, "what if I'm making a mistake?"

"Then it's a mistake. But if you never let yourself do anything that might not work out, you'll never do anything, period."

"I just want Valencia to be happy, and I feel like I'm dragging her down."

"Rebecca," Dr. Shin leans forward, "you won't find happiness inside another person. But you also won't find it by avoiding life."

"But if I feel rejected, and I have a panic attack…"

"Listen, Rebecca, as your therapist, I'm not allowed to give advice on what you should or shouldn't do. But I can say that recovery isn't about never having lows. It's about being accountable for your own actions, building meaningful relationships, and being present in your own life. And all those are things I see you doing."

She nods.

"Opening yourself up to someone is a risk. But if you find meaning in it, and you both treat each other with respect, it can be a risk worth taking. But again, it's your decision — don't pressure yourself to stay in a situation if you aren't happy with it. "

"Thanks," says Rebecca. "I am happy, it's just… I guess life's harder when you're not all numb, huh?"

"I'm sure it is. But you have come a long way, and shown a lot of growth and maturity." He glances at the clock. "Oh, almost six already. Would you like your sticker?"

"Yes please."

**x**

After a busy afternoon of fine-tuning the details of a jazz-age themed bat mitzvah, Valencia comes over one day to find Rebecca lying on her stomach on the living room floor, glaring at a dark speck in front of her. As she draws closer, Valencia sees it's a... raisin?

"What are you doing?"

"Ugh, it's this thing for therapy. We're supposed to be mindful by describing a raisin nonjudgementally. I totally blew it during class — I mean, group. Turns out drawing literary allusions to _The Grapes of Wrath_ is not 'being in the moment.' So I'm studying."

"Oh, hey, mindfulness, I actually know this one. When I went on a meditation retreat in Asia we had all kinds of classes on zen and being fully present."

"You're probably perfect at this by now."

"Oh god no. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I can be a little high-strung. Hey, can I practice with you?"

"Be my guest," says Rebecca with a magnanimous sweep of her arm, accidentally backhanding the raisin. She sets it back in place. "Tactile observation: the raisin is sticky."

Valencia sits down beside her, taking in the dozen or so empty raisin packets scattered around.

"Why did you need so many?"

"Because I'm trying to be objectively mindful and those first raisins were _clearly_ biased and taunting me. Also I got snacky."

"Have you been doing this all day?"

"No. Only since group ended, so like... four hours." Rebecca folds herself into a cross-legged position, looks at her watch "No, four hours twenty-three minutes. Speaking objectively."

"And this is your group about not obsessing?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Rebecca pushes her hair out of her face. "Like, I think I'm getting better — with the BPD thing, not the raisin thing, which I still suck at.

"But it's so tedious. Which, apparently, means I'm doing it right, because it's supposed to be about 'gradual change' and 'working through things,' rather than just memorizing the correct answer to make the therapist like you. But it's... weird, having to go slow."

"Slow can be okay," says Valencia.

"How do you do it, V?"

"Do what?"

"Just… be. I feel like I don't know how to relax, because I'm always worried about messing up what comes next."

"I don't know," says Valencia. "Honestly, I wanted to ask you the same question."

"What? Me? Why?"

"Yeah, since I met you. You were so outgoing, and excited about life, and not afraid to go out and make friends — I'd been terrified to do that for years. You gave me the confidence to actually live my life, instead of being too embarrassed to admit anything needed changing."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Man," Rebecca rubs her temples, "I guess you don't always know what's going on being the scenes. And I'm sorry — I shouldn't have made this all about me. I know you've been dealing with a lot, and you're doing so great. I really am happy for you."

"Thanks." Valencia picks up one of the raisins, squints at it. "But honestly, I don't know if I know how to just be, either. Maybe no one does." She pops out a raisin from one of the boxes, chews and swallows. "But, you know. Working on it."

She brings the first raisin close to her face. "Okay, it's Byzantium purple." She sniffs it. "And it smells sweet. Your turn. Observations."

"Byzantium? That's a colour?"

"Observations, go."

"Okay okay okay. Um… it's oval?"

"Yes! Don't overthink it. Be in the raisin-moment."

"Right. This moment is my raisin d'être."

Valencia tosses the throw pillow at her and Rebecca ducks, laughing.

"I said I was starting to like humour, not awful puns."

Rebecca grins. "Okay. It's wrinkly. Your turn."

"It's… ugly?"

"That's a judgement!"

"Um pretty sure it's a fact. See? Look how lumpy this one is."

"Oh, hm. You do have a point."

As Rebecca moves closer to look at the raisin, Valencia's mouth feels tight, and it takes her a moment to recognize the sensation as smiling, smiling without even having to try. The movement will leave dents in her cheeks, and she realizes she doesn't care.

"Hey, Rebecca?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too." The corners of Rebecca's eyes crinkle. "I've been waiting to say that."

"Me too. This seemed as good a time as any."

"Yeah. Carpe raisin."

Valencia groans. "How dare you say such things to someone you claim to love."

"Sorry," says Rebecca, though she doesn't look sorry at all. "I love you too, V. I guess that's not very mindful, since that's emotion-mind and not the five senses. But it's true."

Valencia kisses her, and Rebecca leans in to kiss her back. When they separate, Valencia smiles. "And was that the five senses?"

"And then some."

They sit for a moment, leaning into each other, feeling the warmth of one another. Rebecca looks up into Valencia's eyes. "Hey V?"

"Yeah?"

"I changed my mind. I love you, and that's not just an emotion."

"No?"

"No. It's a fact. And a promise: to be there for you, because I care about you, and because you're worth it. I want us to be there for each other."

Valencia slides her hand into hers. "I want that too."

Rebecca leans her head on her shoulder, and Valencia wraps her arm around her waist. Through the window, the spring sun is high in the sycamores, filtering onto the hardwood where raisins lie scattered around the two of them.

"Are we doing it?" says Valencia. "Just being?"

"Yeah. I think we are."

Valencia considers Instagramming the scene but decides against it. She already knows this is real. And she doesn't want to move just yet.

**x**

As Rebecca sweeps away the raisins and their boxes, she realizes she's been so wrapped up in the moment that she's only finished about 70% of her therapy homework. She debates cancelling plans to finish, but decides she'll take the C+. Just this once.

She doesn't know what the future holds. She's not even sure if she wants to continue working as a lawyer, though she does enjoy the new cases she's taken pro bono, working with women in the prison system. Women who could have so easily been her. Maybe "enjoy" isn't the right word. But it feels meaningful. And so do the improv groups she's attending, and the singing lessons. She's far from the best in her classes, but she loves them all the same. Her life may not be perfect. But finally, it's hers.

"Rebecca?" calls Valencia from the doorway, where she's waiting with Heather and Hector in preparation for their double date. Hector's finally moving out of his mom's place, and after dinner they're going to check out the apartment he's looking at. Valencia has decorating tips (she's been trying to be nicer to Hector, and though it's a process, evaluating his window dressings is finally a balance of helpfulness and judgementalness she can excel in), and Rebecca's volunteered to make sure the real estate legality is up to snuff.

"You coming?" says Valencia, poking her head into the living room.

"Yeah," says Rebecca. She smiles. "I'm on my way."


End file.
